


Hello, Welcome Home

by carvedwhalebones (fuckyeahlucifersupernatural)



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biblical References, F/M, Harm to Animals, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, Prophecy, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-05-17 21:37:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 68,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14839622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/pseuds/carvedwhalebones
Summary: Staci Pratt finds himself up against Jacob Seed and a conspiracy that the end of times is upon them. Pratt will learn who his dangerous caretaker truly is and how to keep his head above water as Judgement Day approaches. On the opposite side of Hope County, Deputy Lamb proves to be the undoing of John Seed.





	1. Now That This Old World Is Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Then I saw when the Lamb broke one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures saying as with a voice of thunder, “Come.” I looked, and behold, a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer.”_ \- Revelations 6

**July 2018** ►►►

 

On days like these, when the sun is swallowed by fog and overcast clouds, Staci Pratt is never sure when nightfall begins, and sometimes they are walking the path before he can get back inside. They would nip at his heels, but would let him race back into the cabin unscathed. As Pratt would scramble with the key card, they’d anxiously pace near the porch, sniffing at the air.

If Pratt was wiser, he’d time their arrival. He doesn’t. Instead, today, he keeps himself close to the cabin.

Pratt walks around the cabin, a handheld transceiver close to his mouth.  
  
“This is Deputy Staci Pratt from Hope County, does anyone copy?”

Static answers him back. Pratt doesn’t expect to hear from anyone so close to the cabin, but, today, he can’t risk venturing too far. Pratt places the transceiver back towards his mouth, eyeing the side of the cabin. He checks the boards over the windows. In the beginning, the boards were often pried off or split open, forcing Pratt to scramble for a way to replace them the next day. Today, none need to be replaced.

Pratt holds the transceiver tighter and repeats himself:  
  
“This is Deputy Staci Pratt from Hope County, does anyone copy?”

Pratt makes his way inside with the discovered keycard he found weeks ago. Stupid luck found him to this prepper’s last resort in the middle of nowhere. There was a freezer of food, radios, water, enough canned food to last him months, and quite a bit of firepower. Pratt has a pistol stuffed in the back of his slacks, but it feels useless and empty.

He places the transceiver back on its charging station and moves about the kitchen. He finds himself the stashed grounds of instant coffee and begins to make himself a cup. The pot clangs loudly as he pulls it from the cupboard, filling it with water from the sink. He sets it on the stove, turning the dial —

A howl cuts through, low and drawn out.

Pratt turns to the watch on his wrist, finding the hands on the clock frozen in time and glass cracked. Swearing under his breath, he makes a mad dash into the living room of the cabin, staring at the hanging wall clock. It’s hardly five in the evening. They’re early — _he’s early._ Something must have happened.

He can hear the sound of nails clicking and scratching on the porch, hardly masking the footsteps of his most loyal of soldiers. One of them is sniffing at the bottom of the door, an eager whine seeping through the crack.

Pratt is frozen in place, staring at the door, holding his breath.

Heavier footsteps, now. The familiar thud of boots on the porch that has him trembling.

“Peaches,” a voice rumbles through the door, “come on out.”

He closes his eyes, lips becoming drawn into a thin line. He wishes this cabin was soundproof. He should soundproof it, but he’s not quite sure how or with what. Before the windows weren’t boarded, he would see the cut out of his figure, even with the curtains completely drawn. It was hard to look at him, let alone hear him speak calmly from the window.

 _Open up._  
  
_Let me in._  
  
_You will come back to me. You realize that, right?_

A shudder ran through Pratt, a broken inhale of air leaving him. Every night it was the same. He would be there by the door, talking nice and low, and Pratt would feel that intoxicating, knotting heat building in his gut. It’d, eventually, drive him delirious, forcing himself to flee somewhere with thicker walls like the bathroom. Pratt would console himself — reminding himself that this isn’t real. This has been forced into his skull.

The bubbling of the pot on the stove breaks him out of the spell. Pratt moves purposefully back to the kitchen, shakily pouring the boiling water into a mug.

“Staci.”

It’s softer, muffled by the door and the distance between them, but he hears it. Water misses the mug and splashes on the counter.

“…t…be mad…me…” he’s carrying on, but Staci misses part of it when he returns the pot to the stove.

_Only youuuuuuuu can make all this world seem bright._

The music begins without warning and it’s everywhere. Pratt’s eyes flutter, body careening forward. He hastily shoves his fingers in his ears, stumbling into the wall. His heartbeat is loud, but it’s slowing down, matching the tempo of the song.

                                                                                                                                             _Only yooouuuuuuu can make the darkness bright._

  
Darkness begins to thread around the edges of his vision and he’s thinking of everything else, but the song. Montana Department of Justice’s mission is to serve law enforcement agencies and the communities we represent by providing —

                                                                                _Only yooooouuuu and yooouuu alone can thrill me like you do._

Montana Department of Justice’s mission — _fucking fight it_ —is to serve law enforcement agencies and the communities —

 

_And fill my hear with love for only yooooooouuuuuu._

Montana Department of Justice’s _— please, please, please, please —_ mission is to serve law enforcement agencies — 

_Ah ooonnnllly youuuuuuuu…_

Jacob Seed is in front of him, brows pinched in concern, calloused hands cradling his face. His face is shrouded and disappearing in the overwhelming darkness pushing through his vision.

 “Welcome back, peaches.”

 

◄ ◄ ◄ **February 2018** _(Five Months Prior)_

 

“The star opened the pit of the abyss, and smoke rose out of it like the smoke of a great furnace, and the sun and the air were darkened by the smoke from the pit…”

Staci Pratt’s eyes sting under the intensity of the flood lights and remnants of smoke from the crash that continues to waft off of his jacket. His throat is tight and the makeshift gag shoved deep into his mouth is encouraging bile to rise. He can’t see them, but he can feel them. He can feel the thirty or so — _God_ , maybe more — pairs of eyes staring at them.

“They were told not to do harm to the seeds of this earth, or the sea, or trees,” a voice calls out, hands cutting through the glare of the lights. The wooden pallets serving as a makeshift stage groans with each step. Staci closes his eyes when he feels the floor beneath him give in. “But only the men who do not have the seal of God on their foreheads.” The voice is close and the bile is somewhere on his tongue, his gag soaking in the acid.

A finger drags across his forehead, Staci flinching backwards, eyes open. A hand catches his shoulder, Joseph Seed standing before him, unblinkingly meeting his gaze.  
  
“And it was granted to them that they should not kill them…”

Joseph’s hand squeezes, air leaving the man’s nostrils hot on his upper lip as he leans forward. He’s nodding, slow, voice barely above a murmur, “But that they shall torment them for five months. And their torment was like the torment of a scorpion when it might strike a man.” Pratt breaks eye contact and shrinks away, tucking his chin into his collar. For a moment, he can see Hudson and the Marshall standing to his right under guard.

Joseph follows him, tilts his head and moves back into his line of vision.

His free hand moves to cradle his face, surprisingly gentle as he leans in, impossibly close that Staci goes crosseyed.  
  
“And in — ”

A muffled noise cuts through. Hudson is making noise against her gag, stomping her feet. Joseph only smiles and departs with one final squeeze to his shoulder.

Pratt inhales deeply, knees shaking.

Hudson makes the noise, again. Joseph provides a curious look before turning away, back to the crowd.  
  
She kicks out — at the air, at anything, loose gravel and dirt on the pallets skittering after Joseph Seed. Someone from behind her gives a swift punch in the back of the head. Hard enough to hear the thud of knuckles and skull meeting, her body going limp. A cultist keeps her from falling on the floor, jerking her back into an upright position, head snapping back.

Joseph doesn’t react.

“And in those days, men will seek death, and will not find it,” he carries on, louder, preaching, “they will long to die, but death will escape them.”

Hudson’s head rolls forward, spit dripping from her mouth. The cultist gives a brusque shake. Another. Another. She comes to with a pained groan, eyes open and frantically searching. They find him. He looks away only to find the Seed family moving toward them en masse.

Hudson is making a sound, stomping on the wooden pallets underneath her. Then a quiet thud…and the stomping comes to an end.

Pratt keeps his eyes trained on the approaching party. He recognizes the rest of the Seeds crew from their photos on file and what the Marshalls shared. John Seed is the most noticeable, his commercials on every channel the moment you’re ten miles within Hope County’s borders. He looks the same. Photo-ready.

He’s already before Hudson, lips pulled into a gentile smile. He has his hand on her throat, turning her head from side-to-side, tutting away. A hand pulls the bottom of her jacket and top up, exposing her midsection. Hudson is squirming, baring her teeth when fingers poke, prod, and pinch.

Her eyes find him, again. Desperate. He looks away.

The youngest one and hardly related by blood — Faith — is eyeing him with a sweet smile. She’s making a beeline toward him, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress, swishing it across her thighs with each whimsical stride —

**_“Get your hands off me!”_ **

Her eyes leave him and everyone is looking somewhere further to his right. Burke is cussing up a storm, his gag fallen from his mouth. He can feel feet from behind him moving elsewhere. Hudson must have started fighting — inspired, because something of a hiss and a malformed swear rips out of John Seed’s mouth.  
  
“I am a United State’s Marshall and I’m going to make sure all of you — _get off!_ —rot in Death Ro — ” Burke’s choking on the last word.

Pratt moves. He does a quick shuffle backward, moving away from floodlights’ glare. Eyes dart across the unfolding scene, picking up his haphazard jog with his front facing the scene he is leaving. Hudson has John’s hand tight on her throat, Faith is somewhere next to Burke —

No one is looking at him.

“Make sure you say goodbye to the host before you leave.”

Except for Jacob Seed.

 

**✠✠✠✠✠**

He has seen Jacob Seed only twice, so far. The first being when Jacob chose him that night, hand wrapped around the back of his neck like a collar. Guiltily, Pratt considered himself lucky as he listened to Hudson scream somewhere behind him. Even when he was brought here — here being a fortress of towering walls, barbed wire, and cages — he counted his blessings. There were others just like him.

“You’re telling me that U.S. Marshalls were with you?” a woman rasped out, wearing camouflage and looking haggard.

There are about seven of them, all bearing the patch of antlers on their sleeve and claiming to be local militia. They equally looked beat, all of them huddled in their narrow cage. It’s impossible to fully stand up, all of them forced to either sit down or crouch down. “ _It’s a tactic straight out Jacob’s handbook”_ , one of them explained on the first day, _“he wants to make sure we’re uncomfortable. We’ll break that way.”_

Pratt hates that it’s working. His body aches and he’s ravenous. While water is offered in dog bowls, food has yet to be given. It’s been two days and he’s resorted to chewing on the collar of his uniform.

He is about to open his mouth, but someone shushes at them. One of Jacob’s men passes by, rifle in his arms. Pratt only responds when he’s given a nod by the woman. “Yeah. Uh…two of them. One was caught, but not the other. She escaped,” he whispers back.

There is a collective sigh, someone beginning to weep. The woman claps him on the arm, smiling.

“There is hope. Hopefully they’ve made it across county lines. If where you say you all crashed…I’d say it’s a three day journey to a phone outside of this shit hole.”

Pratt gives a weak smile.  
  
“We just have to hold on for one more day or two,” she adds, the group murmuring amongst each other in relief. “Eli has been waiting for a moment like this. He’s always talked about outside help being the very thing to turn the tide — _shh_!”

The sound of footsteps has them collectively quieting the other, heads down, but eyes peering at the sight of boots. He sees more than one set of boots and…the legs of a chair? Pratt risks lifting his gaze, surprised to find Jacob taking the lead. A group of men behind him are carrying a chair and a table —

The militia soldiers in the cage stir in unison, moving closer to the bars. Food. The intoxicating scent of cooked meat hits them and Pratt is drooling.

“You must all be _huuunnngry,_ ” Jacob announces. Everyone’s eyes are on the table, spying what looks like Tupperware of food. Jacob turns to crack open the containers and someone’s hand is reaching through the bars, waiting.

One of the cultists kicks at the hand, Jacob tutting.

“Patience, patience.”

Another container is opened and Pratt finds himself slowly making his way towards the bars, too.

Jacob takes a seat on the chair, resting his nearest arm on the table, staring them down. Pratt can see the scarring on his cheeks and arms, forming small pockets and grooves all across. “Any Jack London fans?” he starts. No one responds. Jacob exhales heavily and rubs at his brow, disappointingly continuing, “There is a line of his, from _The Call of the Wild_. Goes something along the likes of…‘ _he must be master or mastered; while to show mercy was a weakness — ‘_ ”

Jacob’s hand leaves his brow and he gives a nod to the nearest cultist. The cultist grabs at one of the containers, grabs a fistful of what looked like chopped meat, and tosses it toward them.

Pratt is caught in a surreal nightmare as he watches camouflaged men and women lunging at the food, some knocking their heads into the metal bars. Instantly they are fighting with each other over scraps of food. They are on each other, hands in their hair, backs of their shirt, pant legs, and yanking them backward. Hands are grabbing at their mouths, fingers trying to grab at mashed up food, before howling when teeth clamp down. Fingers claw at throats and eyes, reduced to shrieking and grunting creatures, the change so sudden.

“‘ _Mercy did not exist in the primordial life. It was misunderstood for fear and such misunderstandings made for death. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten was the law…_ ”

Staci scrambles backward to the farthest corner in the cage, watching his makeshift allies grappling with the other. A few are no longer moving, still on their spot on the ground. And when the group begins to calm down is more food tossed, stirring the mass once more.

_“‘…and this mandate, down out of the depths of Time, he obeyed.’”_

Pratt shrank under the panicked glare of one of the militia members, quickly losing interest when seeing Pratt has no food and begins to search amongst the dirt.

“Fast, isn’t it? To imagine this is what five days looks like without food,” Jacob continued, but his voice is closer. He’s crouched toward Pratt’s side of the cage, watching the remaining militia members pick at the ground and each other. “One of two things are going to happen here, Deputy Pratt.” Pratt pushes himself further into the corner, finding his eyes locked with Jacob’s the moment their eyes find the other. “They’re going to think you’re weak because you didn’t fight for your meal. They’ll resent you for it. _Orrrrrr,_ ” he draws out, holding a finger up, “they will come to realize what you just did kept you alive a bit longer.”

Jacob opens his hands in question and stood up. Pratt watches him leave, releasing his held in breath only when Jacob’s men have completely left. The table remain, along with the containers of food, the scent maddening. His cellmates have fallen into a state of sobbing and pleading, reaching through the bars for the food. The sight leaves Pratt trembling, stomach growling.

 _How long?_ he thought. _How long? How long?_

Pratt can only hope that rookie deputy made it across.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _What did you like? What would you like more of? Tell me in a review!_


	2. Set Those Sinners Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"When the Lamb opened the second seal, I heard the second living creature say, “Come!” Then another horse came out, a fiery red one. Its rider was given power to take peace from the earth and to make people kill each other. To him was given a large sword.”_ \- Revelation 6:3-4

Feverish and bitter, the remaining Whitetail militia vomit in the cage.

The air is humid and reeks of spilled bile and sweat. They cast their exhausted and bloodshot eyes to Staci, lips pulled into thin lines. It was bad meat, hidden in the scent of cooked food and desperation. They retch, stare, groan, retch, stare, groan — a never ending cycle of rancid contempt. Staci, discreetly, wedges a finger into his ear and presses the other on his bent knee. He keeps his eyes elsewhere and his nose buried into the fabric of his slacks, inhaling the scent of dirt.

He’s the only one not sick. 

To make matters worse, the occasional refill of water stopped, leaving their metal dog bowls unfilled. 

By the eight hour, an uncomfortable dryness settles in his throat and mouth. Staci staves off the nagging need by forcing himself to fall in and out of sleep. Hunger leaves him exhausted. He only comes to when his companions’ retching begin to come up dry and winded.

“Hey,” one of the militia members calls out, voice hoarse. Staci risks a look, expecting them to be talking to him. No, they’re calling out to one of Jacob’s men, a shaky hand stretched out of the cage. They all look ghastly, their skin drawn, sweat clinging onto their foreheads, and blood drained from their faces.

Louder. A little more desperate, _“Hey.”_

That gets his attention, moving his way towards the cage. He makes a show of moving the rifle hanging over his back to his chest, hands loosely cradling it. His lips contort into a white twist of flesh the moment the scent of bile hits his nostrils. He keeps himself a few feet off to the right, spitting in disgust.

“Water — we need water!”

The man snorts, waving the militia member off with a roll of the eyes, “Why? From the looks of it, you’re just going to end up wastin’ good water with the mess you’re making.” A finger is crudely pointed to the sick-saturated-earth. 

“P-please,” Staci clears his throat, shooting a glance at the Whitetail militia on the opposite side of the cage, “just a little.”

Staci earns a considering look.

“Well, boss said I could give only you water. You’re not wasting it like the rest.” He’s moving a hand to reach on his person, pulling out a canteen. A gargled noise leaves one of the militia members. Staci keeps his eyes on the canteen, palms beginning to collect sweat. “No funny business. Just you alone.” He offers it and Staci can hear the sloshing of water inside. 

Staci stares at the water, his breath beginning to quicken as he digs his nails into his legs. He dares a quick glance to the Whitetail militia, finding dead eyes and flared nostrils. He turns back, his chin beginning to tremble. He needs it. He _really_ needs it. A strange sound bubbles out of his mouth, unsure and beginning to panic. Each frenzied heave scratches against his dried out throat, reminding him that he needs water. 

So he takes it. 

He quickly grabs at the canteen and turns his back to his companions. Greedily, he gulps down the water, nearly choking as it roughly goes down his gullet. 

He hands it back when it is drained empty, earning a low whistle from the Peggy, “Damn.” 

Staci refuses to look at his companions. He crawls his way back to his corner and keeps his face buried in his bent knees. 

“Was it worth it?” a voice hisses out. Staci doesn’t respond. 

 

**✠✠✠✠✠**

 

Pratt wakes to hands on his wrists and ankles. His immediate reaction is to jerk his limbs out of the hold, body flailing, but pressure is applied. He’s pinned. He looks around, finding the Whitetail militia above him. The darkness leaves them faceless, but he can smell the sick off their labored breathing and clothing. Staci begins to tremble without control, wanting to cry out, but his mouth refuses to open.

“You knew, didn’t you? You knew it was a trick,” someone spits out.

Pratt shakes his head, wetting his lips, managing to shakily exhale, “No.”

Someone hits him in the ribs, Pratt coughing, grimacing in pain.

“You’re lying,” the same voice whispers, but there is less conviction. Another hit in the ribs pulls a groan out of him, eyes fluttering to a close. A hand slides over his mouth to silence him. Pratt tries to make eye contact with one of them — any of them — but all he finds are muted shadows glossing over their features, leaving them faceless.

 _“You’re lying,”_ the faceless mass repeats, louder, “Why are you the only one who gets water?!”

“Why you?!” they seethe.

It feels like hot coals dropping through his rib cage with each blow. An agonized noise is muffled as his chest swells with a far reaching pain. He tries to squirm, but the hands on his wrists tighten and broken nails burrow deeper into his skin. Each twist and turn leaves his vision darkening near the edges, already giving in to exhaustion. He ends up flailing for a moment, before sinking back down, panting. His own attackers fair no better, their breathing loud and voice raspy. 

“We’re not going to be saved. It’s been two days. No one is here. You _know_ that.”

Staci tries to shake his head. That rookie is going to save them. National Guard is probably a day’s journey away. He wants to tell them, but all words and noises are lost and smothered.

The next jab leaves him breathlessly sobbing, each desperate intake of air sucking in the skin of the hand over his mouth. God, he can’t breathe. He needs to breathe — 

_Crack!_

The noise is followed by a soft thud, somewhere close to Staci’s left, and one of the militia members careens backwards. They all stare, dumbfounded. 

Light, suddenly, floods the cage. With bleak, exhausted eyes, Staci watches the immediate, frenzied bodies and movement within the cage. A Whitetail militia member lays motionless beside him, eyes glazed over, and his collarbone a bright red. Someone is swearing — shouting — crawling over him. 

The cage door swings open and Pratt moves his head towards it quick enough to witness a large shape leap in and sink its teeth into someone’s arm. _“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!”_ They’re being dragged out into the sea of light, legs wriggling and kicking the whole way, screaming. 

Pratt can feel the air in his lungs leave him, eyes wide as his brain sluggishly begins to realize what is transpiring. Only three of them were left and Staci tries to pull himself back to his corner, but his body remains paralyzed. His hands spasm by his sides and he can only lay there, watching different pairs of boots emerge from the light. Someone is still screaming, but the noise is wet and choked out. Staci feels his stomach roll at the sickening sound of a distinct crack followed by silence. 

There stood Jacob Seed, bathed in the glow of the floodlights, with a pistol in hand. He’s moving towards him.

Staci exhales, closing his eyes. He can feel gloved hands wrapping around his wrists. And Staci is dragged into the floodlights. Away from the cage. Into the night.

Both of Jacob Seed’s predictions were right: the Whitetail militia resent him and he managed to last a bit longer.

 

**✠✠✠✠✠**

 

Sound; the mechanical sound of something moving. A scratch of something scraping and…music? Soft. Words incomprehensible, save for the barely heard croon of the backup singers and the pressed chords from the piano.

Staci Pratt coughs weakly, waking up, wincing as pain fills the entire upper half of his body. His ribs throb to the tempo of his heart. He gives out a groan, trying to arch his back. He can’t move. Staci opens his eyes, adjusting to the gloom in the room. He’s in a chair, wrists cuffed to the armrest. Staci tests his binds, but they hold. 

He blinks a few times, squinting in the darkness. He can’t quite tell where the music is coming from, trying to tilt his head to get a better sense of direction.

God, he hardly has the faintest of clues how long he’s been here.

_Click._

A mechanical click of something moving has him jumping in his seat, recoiling when light suddenly breaks through the darkness. It strikes only one side of the wall, revealing a square of light and a projector. Pratt turns his head, but he sees no one manning the machine. Staci’s fingers grope at the armrest, digging his nails into the wood. There are already deep grooves. 

“You didn’t take the bait.”

Staci jerks in his seat, a nervous hiccup of inhaled air leaving Staci in surprise. Jacob Seed peels himself out of the darkness from somewhere behind him, like he’s always been there, just waiting for Pratt to wake up. His measured steps match the tempo of the song, still playing quietly in the background. 

“Don’t trust everything you see. Even salt looks like sugar.”

_Click._

An image, finally, shows on the projector. It’s the Whitetail soldiers, tossed in an indiscriminate pile on the back of a pick-up truck. Their faces are gaunt, cheeks hollowed out, and eyes faraway. Pratt shifts in discomfort in his seat, eyes focusing elsewhere. 

“Want to know how it works?” Jacob inquires. Pratt remains quiet. “When your own life is threatened, empathy goes _riiiight_ out the window,” Jacob makes a sweeping motion with his hand, "all that is left is that selfish part of us.” He moves to the image, rapping a knuckle on the projector screen. “In other words, that lizard brain of ours is focused only on our survival.”

_Click._

“Now, why didn’t _you_ take the bait?” 

Pratt’s eyes slide downward, an image of the Whitetail soldiers in the cage being projected. He takes a shaky inhale of air, but remains quiet. It’s the wrong response, because Jacob is moving closer. He drags a chair over and sets it next to Pratt’s, taking a seat. 

“I wasn’t…hungry,” Pratt, finally, answers. 

Jacob leans closer, voice low and quiet, “What about Joey Hudson?”

Staci turns to look at Jacob, brows pinched together. Jacob is close, the poor lighting in the room casting strange shadows across the man’s face. He unblinkingly meet Staci’s gaze, forcing the young deputy to turn away.

“What happened after the crash?”

Staci remains quiet, fixating on the image of the Whitetail soldiers. He shifts in his seat, letting a few of his fingers trace the grooves and craters left on the armrests. The music is still playing low in the background. Staci tries to catch a few of the words, but it’s still far too quiet. He works his jaw, attempting to keep his focus elsewhere. 

“I was brought to that stage,” he murmurs, after a prolonged moment of silence, “your brother was talking.”

“Can you hear him?”

_They were told not to do harm to the seeds of the earth, or the sea, or trees —_

Joseph’s voice slides through the notes of the music, rising and falling with the pitch of the singer. Staci immediately straightens up in his chair, casting a fearful look at Jacob. Jacob only stares back at him, impossibly still. Staci turns his head to the left, looking for some sort of speaker or…

_And it was granted to them that they should not kill him —_

“Do you hear him?” 

Staci nods, tightening his grip on the armrests, knuckles blanched white with tension. 

_Click._

The room has changed. The square of light from the projector has grown wider, overcoming the entirety of the wall. The makeshift stage of wooden pallets is projected and Joseph Seed is walking across, arms outstretched. There he stood, along with the others, on display.

 _But only the men who do not have the seal of God on their foreheads._ Joseph is touching him, his thumb sliding across his forehead in the shape of a cross. He can feel it. He can feel the hand that grabs at his shoulder, forcing him to stare into Joseph’s eyes. Pratt’s chin starts to tremble, trying to push himself further back into his chair. 

Hudson is making a noise, turning Joseph’s attention away. She’s stomping her feet, shouting through her gag.

“Look at me.”

Pratt turns his head back to Jacob, aware of the tears streaming down his unshaven cheeks. 

“What did you do?”

_Click._

He can see himself from behind Jacob, shuffling off of the stage. Hudson is kicking and screaming, defiantly fighting off her captors. He’s moving backwards faster. Faster. Further. Further. Further away. 

Staci starts to cry, vision blurring with tears, tucking his chin into chest. “I left,” he croaks out. 

“You ran away,” Jacob corrects, “why?”

His breathing is, now, labored, tears soaking the front of his uniform shirt. A choked noise, wet with spit, comes coughing out, “I was scared.”

“You ran away and did nothing to help, because you were scared. You were weak,” Jacob returns, voice a low drone in his right ear. “Are you scared now?” 

Staci shakes his head.

“I want you to be scared̲̰͖̠." 

 _Pan͝ic͞._  

Cold fear pours through his veins and he’s shrieking. Legs kicking out, heart bursting in his chest, he thrashes in his seat. He’s yanking on his bindings, desperately trying to squeeze his hands out of them. He gives up within seconds, starting to dig at the wooden armrest with his nails, determined to pry himself off of this chair. Wood splinters underneath him, piercing skin and wedging underneath his nail, but he can’t stop.

His chest aches and his breath is an unhealthy staccato trapped in the base of his throat. Already his vision is beginning to go dark, his own body making oxygen scarce. He can’t stop it. He can’t will his body to pause and breathe, only serving to fuel his own terror. _I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. This is it._ He’s going to die clawing at these armrests — 

“Good. Now, I want you to take a deep breath,” Jacob’s voice cuts through, instantly stilling him. “Inhale,” he coaches calmly, “and exhale.” 

_Inhale._

Staci takes in a deep breath, relief beginning to flood through his system. It pushes down his rising confusion and budding terror.

The music is louder, now. He can catch a few of the lyrics. 

_Exhale._

Staci exhales, feeling his heartbeat begin to slow down. 

_Inhale._

He takes a deep breath.

_Exhale._

“I know why you didn’t take the bait.”

_Inhale._

“You didn’t take it out of caution. You were scared of what they would do to you.”

_Exhale._

“You were weak, but the weak serve a purpose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _What did you like? What would you like more of? Tell me in a review!_


	3. Keep Your Rifle By Your Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“And there fell a great star from Heaven, burning like a torch. And it fell upon a river, and the name of the star was Wormwood, and many men died.”_ \- Revelations 8:10

_Wake up._

Staci Pratt’s eyes open, jumping back, his shoulder knocking into something hard. He whirls to his left,  hands held up to his face, to find he bumped into…a helicopter? His heart thuds with the abrupt shock, standing, gaping at the emblazoned Hope County’s Sheriff’s Department logo. Staci presses his face against the window, squinting. The helicopter is lit up inside, but the colors are muted, caught in a haze. 

It’s his. This is his. How did it get here? How did _he_ get here?

Staci turns himself around, unsure. He’s outside and it must be night, because his world is completely shrouded in darkness. Even the sky is absent of stars or satellites. If he looks hard enough he can see the outlines of buildings nearby, but no light in the distance. Staci lays a cautious hand on the handle of the cockpit door and his only source of light.

“Joey?” he calls out. 

He waits. 

Nothing. 

Staci remains immobile, unable to decide what to do. His throat seizes when he catches the sound of people singing — far off, but close. 

_Come closer._

He rather sees the words than hears them, recoiling further against the helicopter. The words carve themselves into existence — painfully bright and flickering —  on the ground beneath his feet, bolded and stretched out. Staci stares, dumbfounded, clutching tighter to the cockpit door. 

The lights inside the helicopter begins to dim, his hand darting back to his side at the change. 

Staci takes a step forward, shuffling, and the words on the floor fades. He takes another step, hands balled into fists. The rest of his world begins to light up, a reddish light stirring itself awake. The lights emerge from within and underneath the buildings. The funereal warmth of the lights reveal familiar metal archways, pointed fences, Eden Project’s distinctive cross, and — not too far away —  a simple church. Staci’s jaw tightens, casting a nervous look at his surroundings.  

He’s at Joseph Seed’s main complex. He’s at the beginning. 

The singing is louder, now, but the words indistinct. A hymn? 

He takes another step forward. The buildings push themselves backwards, quickly dragging themselves across the floor, leaving only a longer stretch of broken cement and packed dirt. He recoils at the sudden movement, taking a wobbly step backwards, sweat beginning to collect on his chin and forehead.

This can’t be real. This isn’t real. He just needs to wake up. 

 _Come closer,_ the words snake across the floor in light, leading. 

Staci looks over his shoulder; the helicopter is still there. Without hesitation, he turns his back to the path and jogs towards the cockpit entrance of the helicopter. 

The singing is closer, now.

 ** _WEAK_** streaks across the door. Pratt swings the door open, clambering inside. **_WRONG_** on the control panel. **_WEAK. WEAK. NO. WRONG._** It’s on the windshield, blocking his view. Pratt is pressing everything by memory, his hands shaking. **_COWARD. WEAK._** The helicopter starts, blades picking up speed. He focuses on the next step, but the words are cluttering his line of sight. **_WEAK. USELESS._**

He’s gaining lift, desperately trying to peer through the shield of words. The helicopter is rising and the singing is louder. **_WEAK. FAILURE._** It’s closer, distinctively clear over the chirping of the helicopter and the engine. 

“— mazing grace, how sweet the sound. That saved a wretch like _meeeee_.”

**_BEHIND YOU._ **

Staci looks back and there is Joseph Seed, handcuffed in his seat, singing. Just like before. His eyes are closed, swaying in his seat. Staci stares, wide-eyed, heart beating in his throat. 

“I once was lost, but now am — ”

**_FOUND YOU._ **

The Peggies are on the helicopter, their garbled and shrieked promises, suddenly, unmuted. Joseph’s voice continues to cut through the madness, face serene and unbothered. This is just like before. 

Cultists are crawling and hanging on the helicopter. He watches their greasy handprints smear across the windshield and a world on fire emerges in the background. The sky is caught in a blood red haze, a strange light rising far off, tucked a ways off in the middle of the forest.

Joseph is still singing, soft and low. 

_Panic._

Staci panics, his hand slamming on every button while his other tries to push the Peggies out of the helicopter. A hand yanks at the back of his hair, one on his leg, and another on his waist. He’s screaming, belting out nonsense, all of it falling into a hyperventilating fit of tears. His free hand is clawing at the control panel for purchase, but someone is dragging him out — 

_Good. Wake up, Staci._

Staci jerks his body up, staring with sleep-clouded eyes at his surroundings, his heart beating a violent tattoo against his chest. Phantom hands linger on his legs and waist, squeezing. His legs thrash at the touch and his hands are pushing at whatever is on him. The touch slides off and Staci risks a glance down — it’s a blanket. 

His head starts to spin, feeling himself grow dizzy at the sudden movement. His world is tilting, rocking left and right. He moves a hand to cradle the side of his skull, closing his eyes. 

He’s not in the helicopter. He’s not in the cage. 

It wasn’t real. All of it wasn’t real. Just a bad dream.

Staci cracks an eye open, examining his new surroundings.

He’s in a cell — inside the complex, maybe? It’s small, but it has a small cot, toilet, and sink. A soft noise in surprise escapes him and he forces himself up from his cot. He stumbles towards the sink, fumbling at the knobs. A choked noise in relief leaves him when water comes out. He greedily places his mouth right next to the faucet, drinking his fill. His stomach begins to ache, a sharp pain jabbing him somewhere above his bellybutton. Staci sticks a thumb where it hurts, fiercely applying pressure as he drinks more.

God, and his clothes. Staci considers peeling them off, but it doesn’t look like there is a clean set of clothes in the cell. He debates how to handle this and opts for scrubbing his face clean of the sweat and grime. He tries to do the same with his hair, but he’s exhausted after a few minutes of trying and the ache in his stomach has spread uncomfortably near his groin. It leaves him hunched forward, the debilitating pain leaving him grinding his teeth. Staci abandons his grooming attempts and hobbles to the cot. 

The lingering fear from the dream is long gone, replaced with hunger. He, still, hasn’t eaten. Has it been six days, now? His stomach reminds him through not-so-subtle ways.

Dread settles next to the aches and pain. Staci digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. He’s going to starve to death. He’s going to die in here. Suddenly, urged by those words, the picture of him weeks prior flew into his brain. 

He remembers his mom’s visit and the distinct smell of her perfume. Same perfume she’s been wearing since he’s been little. He remembers her making herself at home in his apartment, placing the kettle on the stove and reciting the same old fears. How she always worries about him out on the field and him always rolling his eyes: _Estoy bien, mama, aquí nunca pasa nada._ He remembers that disbelieving look before it melts away into a smile, her hands reaching his own to grip them tightly. 

_“Let me worry.”_

The thought leaves him devastated and drained.  He can feel the parts of his hands pressed into his eyes grow wet. 

 

 **✠✠✠✠✠**  
  


A knock comes to the cell door before it is swung open, the metal door’s hinges giving a off pitch whine. Staci reacts slowly, turning his head to look at the visitor. It’s one of the cultists, his hands curled around his rifle.

“Get up. Jacob wants to see you.” 

Staci starts the process of getting up, his stomach violently protesting to the movement. A hot pain sears across his gut, throbbing. Staci digs his fist into his stomach and takes laborious steps forward, trying his best not to jostle himself too much. 

The cultist gives an irritated once over and gestures with his rifle for him to go ahead of him. He’s directed with nudges and pushes as he moves through the hallways. He’s trying to memorize what he’s seeing, but it’s hard to concentrate. He feels sluggish and trying to focus on the world around him leaves him winded.

Eventually, he’s brought to a door. The cultist pushes him out of the way and knocks. Someone responds from within and the door is opened. This time a hand grabs at his arm and drags him inside. Jacob Seed is sitting behind a desk, eyes downcast on a piece of paper he is holding his hands. Music is playing quietly in the background, somewhere to Staci’s far left corner, but he doesn’t turn to look at the source. He lets himself be pulled and pushed into the chair in front of Jacob’s desk. 

Jacob gives a sigh through his nostrils as the door clicks shut. He’s still dressed in his military fatigues. Staci stares at his hands, spying the angry welts and the aftermath of burned flesh across the top of his hands and up to his forearms. He finds his brows pinching together, unconsciously rubbing at the back of his own hands. 

“You know that feeling in your gut. Like your appendix is about ready to burst?” Jacob breaks the silence, placing the paper in his hand down. He gives a series of small nods at Staci, eyes slowly moving over him. “You feel it, huh? Your brain is working so hard to keep you alive that it’s — ironically — eating itself away. Eating at your muscle tissue, fat — _anything.”_

Jacob reaches for something underneath the desk, revealing a circular, styrofoam container. Something is sloshing inside of it and Staci can’t help but perk up. Jacob places it on the desk and pops the lid. The scent of chicken broth hits his nostrils and he’s reeling, a greedy groan leaving his lips. His fingers move to reach for it, but they stop at the edge of the desk, gripping it. His eyes dart from the container to Jacob, a pleading look shot his way. 

Jacob ignores it, but doesn’t offer the container to Pratt.   
  
“How long have you been at the Sheriff’s Department?” he asks, voice falling back to that calm and soft drone. Staci can hear the music in the background, melding in with Jacob’s words. 

Staci blinks, brain trying to catch up to the change in subject, “Uh…five years?” His own voice sounds strange to his ears — disused and cracked. 

“Did you volunteer to work with the U.S. Marshalls?” 

Staci looks back at the container of soup and his stomach growls, a series of pinprick sensations littering across his abdomen. He winces at the pain, trying his best to stay still. God, he’s so hungry. Pratt lets his nails dig into the surface of Jacob’s desk. A faraway part of him is nagging at him — warning him.

“Yeah.”

“Why?” 

He closes his eyes, trying hard to focus on that question. Why did he volunteer? Staci gives a hesitant hum, his forehead, now, all scrunched up. “I…just thought it was exciting,” he lamely admitted, opening his eyes to stare back at the broth, “never did a joint operation with the Marshalls. They needed a pilot and just…” 

Staci doesn’t finish and Jacob doesn’t seemed too interested in prying further. Instead, he reaches underneath the desk, again, and reveals a straw. He places the straw on top of the lid and Staci inches further up in his chair. He can feel himself close to crying, a thick weight budding in his throat. The music sounds louder, but he’s not sure how? Piano chords are being played and a singer is crooning _yooou._ But it’s only that word. Nothing else. An elongated _you_. 

“Who is Deputy Lamb?”

“Some rookie brought along by…uh…” Staci squeezes his eyes shut, trying to recall, “…Burke.” 

“That’s all you know?” Jacob inquired.

Staci nods his head, regretting the gesture when it leaves him with a headache. Jacob remains silent, staring at him. The silence is unnerving and Staci is torn between looking at Jacob and at the container of broth. Nothing. No more questions. No prompting. Nothing. He hates himself for weakly reaching out before retracing his hand halfway. He gestures towards the container, a strangled sort of noise bursting from his lips. He wants it. He needs it. He doesn’t know why he isn’t grabbing for it, but he can’t. 

Jacob remains quiet, face impassive, watching. 

Did he not answer the question right? 

“…she’s…younger than me?” he tries, helplessly looking about him for answers, “Don’t think she’s from Montana? I didn’t catch an accent. I don’t know.”

Nothing. No reaction. 

So Staci starts to cry, blubbering nonsense, “I thought it was stupid she come on the mission. Why bring a newbie? Stupid. Stupid, but Whitehorse said it was out of his hands.” Shame settles and he’s wilting in the chair, confused and overwhelmed with himself.

Rough hands touch his face, instantly breaking the downward spiral. Staci knows it must be Jacob. 

His hands are impossibly warm, returning color to his cheeks and forehead. One curls around the right side of his face, the meat of Jacob’s hand pressing into his jawline. Fingers rest against his skin, one lost somewhere behind his ear and in his hair. The singer’s croon is fading. Jacob’s other hand is loose around his throat, a finger pressing just so into his pulse.

“Inhale,” Jacob’s voice gently coaches. Staci inhales. 

“Exhale.” Staci exhales. 

“Inhale.” Staci inhales.

“Exhale.” Staci exhales. 

His crying comes to an end and he opens his eyes, staring straight at Jacob Seed. His eyes are not as intrusive as his sibling, but he’s being curiously observed. Staci continues to follow Jacob’s commands, feeling that familiar mental fog from before creep into his bones, seeming to drip from Jacob’s fingertips. It sends a shiver up his spine, his eyes, now, half lidded. He leans into Jacob’s palm — 

His stomach aches. A harsh reminder he’s hungry and Staci’s accidently inhales before Jacob’s prompt. His mind swirls and he looks elsewhere, eyes darting away from Jacob’s face and to the ceiling. The wall. Last time this happened, he suddenly woke up in the cell. No. A panicked frustration begins to rebuild itself in his chest. No. He’s — 

“— goddamn hungry. Skip this and let me eat.”

His gut sinks into the bottom of his being, mortified. _I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry._ He didn’t mean to say it.

He turns his eyes to Jacob, ready to say exactly that, but he looks pleasantly perplexed. He gives a simple ‘ _hmph_ ’ and his hands leave his face, “Good.” Staci gawks. Even with Jacob’s impossibly warm hands leaving him, he can feel heat return and settle in his face and chest at the praise. 

Maybe that was the right move? Staci is unsure and he’s trying to analyze Jacob’s every move. He watches him leave his spot next to him and carefully grab the container of broth. Jacob places the lid on the desk and slips the straw in the broth. He walks back to Pratt, taking a seat on the edge of the desk. He holds the container out and Staci reaches for it. He tries to hold it, but it feels too heavy in his hands. Jacob keeps it up from underneath, steadying it as Pratt searches for the straw with his mouth. 

A pleased noise is trapped in his throat as he drinks the broth. The scent floods his senses and it’s warm. It doesn’t take long for Jacob to be the one holding the container for him completely, his hands flopping uselessly back on his lap. 

“Slow down,” Jacob prompts. Staci slows down. “Good.” 

 _It’s so good._ Staci has to pull away to take a deep breath, eyeing the remaining broth greedily. He’s quick to return to the straw, happily sucking it down. 

“We are hardwired to survive. Always have been,” Jacob lectures, Staci half-listening, “but we have gotten soft. Dulled ourselves. We wait until we’re on our last leg to cling onto life and even then, it’s not us fighting. It’s our brain readjusting how it works to a new environment — not you.” He moves the container away when Staci starts sucking on air, the container, finally, empty of broth. Staci sinks back into his chair, exhausted, but relieved. 

Staci is waiting to hear more, but it never comes. Jacob leaves it there — half-written and half-said. 

“You must contribute to our survival. You must earn your keep,” Jacob instructs, returning to his place behind the desk. His voice changes, turning matter-of-fact as he returns to the papers on his desk, “I’ve decided on a new role for you. You will be my shadow. You will say nothing. You will follow and do as instructed. You will take dictation in shorthand and type meeting notes. That is all you will do and under my direct supervision. Questions?”

Staci’s certain that was a rhetorical question, but he tries his luck. The broth has left his belly warm and somewhat bold. Or, depending on the result, very stupid. 

“Can I take a shower?” 

He hates that it feels like he’s asking for so much. Jacob stares at him, considering.

“Earn it.” Jacob adds, cheekily, with a breadth of a smile on his lips, “Survive tomorrow.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _What did you like? What would you like more of? Tell me in a review!_


	4. Oh John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"When He opened the third seal, I heard the third living creature say, ‘Come and see.’ So I looked, and behold, a black horse, and he who sat on it had a pair of scales in his hand. And I heard a voice in the midst of the four living creatures saying, ‘A quart of wheat for a denarius, and three quarts of barley for a denarius; and do not harm the oil and the wine.’”_ **\- Revelation 6:5-6**
> 
> Made changes to the chapter on 6/27. :)

◄ ◄ ◄ **February 2018  
**   
**John Seed**  
**  
**

“It should be there when _I_ get there! ******_Un-der-stood?_** ”

John Seed tosses the handheld radio into the passenger seat. Whatever the response may be, it’s drowned by the roar of the truck’s engine. He’s speeding down the road in the middle of the night, practically rising out of his seat, foot heavy on the gas pedal. He’s going far too fast, the bottom of the truck grinding against the road over every pothole and bump. He doesn’t care. There’s a steady burn searing the side of his neck, but he embraces it.

He thinks he hears it now.

John moves to the truck’s stereo to turn down the volume before realizing it was never turned on. Shooting an offended glance at the stereo, he rolls down the window. There it is. He can hear the oncoming hum of an airplane not too far off.

Sticking his head out of the window, he can see the position lights on the wings. His truck veers dangerously to the right when he leans out too far.

John lets himself swerve to the right, driving into a field. He comes to an abrupt halt when the plane lands. John makes his way towards the plane with hurried steps, nearly skipping. “ _Yes, yes, yes, yes,”_ he chants under his breath, dragging an appreciative hand across the tail as he ducks underneath, grinning at the sight.

“Sir, it’s — ” the pilot is making his way out of the cockpit. John’s grin snaps into a frown, cutting him off with an annoyed wave.

He eases himself into the cockpit, taking great care to adjust his headset and strap himself in. The radio is crackling in his ears, catching part of a conversation.

_“— they’re holed up in the cabin near the southwest fence. Got them pinned.”_

John looks at his watch. He’ll make it.

The plane’s engine hums through the air, the sky perfectly clear. He can see the sporadic throw of lights from houses and campfires. He’s gliding closer to their last location.

_“Sinners got a truck. They’re in one of our trucks. We’re in pursuit! They’re getting on the main road.”_

There is the sign — a beautiful combustion of metal and fire about six miles out. He can see the lead truck racing down the road, about two minutes ahead of the pursuing members of Eden’s Gate. John maintains his altitude, too high to be noticed by anyone, and passes them. He makes a smooth turnaround and dives, pulling himself close behind the truck. Someone in the passenger side has their head sticking out, gun firing wildly as the truck bounces about. He can’t see their face, but dark hair is whipping about in the wind like some obtuse flag.

John squeezes the trigger, bullets racing across the right side of the truck as a taunt. The passenger hastily sticks their head in. The truck does a dangerous yank to the left, tires screeching across the cement.

_“John’s a-coming!”_

John can hear his name being hollered and whooped at in joy over the radio. He can’t help but smirk at the praise, beginning a turn for another pass.

He lines the plane up against the road’s straight path, tilting the nose just so. His thumb dances across the trigger, thrilled and fixated on the truck that is leaving a trail of fire and brimstone.

_“Brother,”_ Joseph’s voice crackles through the radio. John’s smirk softens into a smile at the sound of his voice. _“You cannot harm them. They are important to our cause.”_

He’s less than a minute away. He taps at the trigger — hardly enough pressure. He starts to squirm in disbelief in his seat, baring his teeth at his windshield. It’s not fair. Rolling his shoulders, he squints at the oncoming truck.

_“John.”_

Sighing, he swings the plane off center, and petulantly presses his thumb into the trigger. Bullets dance everywhere but the truck, puncturing the road. The truck has to hastily pull itself in a different direction to avoid, giving a mad dance on the road. And if John accidently struck a fuel tanker, well…he never claimed to be perfect.

John catches the last moments of the truck performing a chaotic swan dive into the Henbane River.

**✠✠✠✠✠**

 

So they’re one junior deputy and a sheriff short.

Joseph is hardly pleased with the results. After the caught usurpers have been designated to a Herald for “revelation”, he finds Joseph’s hand on his wrist. It’s loose, but the touch has him immediately downcast and somber. Joseph sighs at the response, opting for letting his thumb rub the inside of his wrist. 

“Two souls have evaded the truth — they’re lost. One of them is important, John. One of them will test you,” he warns softly, squeezing his wrist. “One of them will weigh your heart against a feather of your truth. Find them and face this test.” 

John gives a solemn nod, “Yes, Joseph.” 

Another sigh, but lighter this time. Joseph’s hand curls around his cheek and kisses him on the forehead. “I love you, brother.” 

John smiles at that. 

And he smiles at Deputy Hudson. 

A different smile. One that sits easier on his mouth, far away from the eyes of his siblings, in the belly of his bunker. Ventilation is poor and in dire repair on the lowest level, a strange heat emitting from the very foundations. There is a thin layer of sweat coating Hudson, having long gone been removed of her uniform, forced to sit in her undergarments. There is a pungent scent of earth and rot that is incited by said heat, Deputy Hudson gagging in her chair. She, eventually, pukes up water and something discolored next to her. 

John sneers at it, as if _that_ is the most offensive action he’s witnessed within these walls. He moves closer to Hudson, sneer morphing into an encouraging grin when she spits at him. It hits his shoulder and he pays it no mind. He drags his chair in front of the bile, blocking it from view. 

Better.

“You have been living without the Word of the Father. You will be alone no longer,” John starts, taking a few steps back, smile resurfacing. “Those who can walk through Eden’s gates must have a heart unburdened by sin, but there is a process. You can’t just confess and —“  John snaps his fingers. “Poof!” 

“Fuck you, you sick fuck.”

John blinks, miffed. His tongue presses against the roof of his mouth, sucking in the air, a wet hiss whistling through his teeth.

He turns and moves back to a wooden station in the room, rummaging through the array of items on top. He pulls out duct tape, yanking a strip and biting it off with his teeth. 

**_“GO! ROT! IN! HELL!”_** Hudson shouts, voice deafening in the confined room. John presses the tape against her mouth, the rest of her words sealed. She tries to kick with her bound legs and ankles, chair rocking. John gives a disapproving scowl and steps on the wheel locks, the seat coming to a stop. 

He takes a step back, carefully watching Deputy Hudson. Working his jaw, he drags a hand through his hair, taking a steadying breath. 

“Now, where — ”

Hudson is making noises against the tape. Awful, disruptive, distracting, and rude noises.

John is on her, his knee digging into her thigh, hands clutching at her neck. He doesn’t squeeze. His hands twitch against the hollow of her throw, debating. “For fuck’s sake, give it a rest,” he snaps, breathing hard, “no one can _hear_ you. No one will _help_ you.” Hudson only glares at him, nostrils flared. “Besides,” starting on a new beat, easing away from Hudson, “confession is meant to be private.” 

Hudson stares, silent.

“Good. Now, where was I,” he begins, again. His shoulders roll back, he smiles, and he begins to walk back and forth. “To become unburdened by sin. Yes. There are four stages. The first is the Marking. You must wear your sin on your skin. How can you acknowledge sin if it is not pointed out to you? Until it is screaming at you?” he’s riling himself up, voice rising, as if he’s in a tent meeting, giving out his gospel presentation. 

“You see, I know you, _Joey Hudson_ ,” he pauses, leaning against his work station. “It’s my job to know people’s sins. My duty. Nancy has been so good to me over the years letting me…peek at the records. Peek at more than that.” Hudson’s brows ease up, her forehead no longer scrunched forward. John smiles at that, teeth flashing. 

“Dropped out college. Didn’t even finish one year. You live alone. But your sister lives just two counties over — ”

Hudson is glaring, once more, heated words lost and muffled. 

John holds his hands up in mock surrender. “There is one record I don’t have. I’ll eventually get it, but I rather we speed along this little story,” he continues, practically purring as he moves closer. “I’m missing the record on that other deputy of yours.” Hudson shakes her head. “Oh, you know who I’m talking about. The one who can’t cuff quite right?” He’s teasing, taunting. 

“You want to give me a name?” 

Hudson is still. Thinking. 

John gives an impatient tap of the foot, rising his brows expectantly. 

She nods. 

He smiles and picks at the edge of the tape, pulling it partially off — 

She spits on him, _again._ This time it hits his cheek.

A curse is being slung at John and he lunges at her throat. _Squeezes_ it. Feels his lips tremble, twisted into an ugly sneer, the skin all around his mouth blanched a stark white. He watches her face go red, choking and shaking for air. He feels the panic lodged in her throat, muscles flexing. He waits until the veins in her eyes become engorged and he releases. 

She heaves for air and John silences the irritating sound by placing the tape back on her mouth. 

“I know your sin. You have quite a few, but let’s address this one, first,” he quietly seethes, moving with purposeful movement across the room. A small metal table is dragged towards the chair, the items on top clattering loudly. 

John eyes the canvas that is Hudson’s body and settles on her ribcage. He cleans the section with a wet cloth.

"Wrath. For the Father says, ‘ _you must rid yourselves of all such things as these: anger, rage, malice, slander, and filthy language —_ ’” John pointedly looks up at Hudson, “‘ _from your lips_.’” He sighs, leaving the cloth on the table and picking up another item. It gives a soft buzz, Hudson cocking her head to look at it, beginning to twist in her confines, again. 

“Oh, how poetic it would be to put it right here,” his free hand taps a finger on her right cheek. “But, we have an important video to shoot tomorrow and I want us to look our Sunday Best.” 

* * *

**  
****February 2018 ►►►**  
  
**Staci Pratt**

 

The cell door swings open at, exactly, six thirty in the morning and he’s ushered into what looks like the mess hall. The room is, already, filled with cultists, eating their morning meals. They’re different from the cultists at Joseph’s compound. Their beards are trimmed, clothes more uniformed, and there is something practiced in the way they sit and engage with each other.

Staci keeps his starting at a minimum when he realizes all heads are turning to watch him, conversations falling into hushed murmurs. Staci ends up staring at the floor, letting himself be led to one of the tables.

Jacob Seed is there, digging into a hearty plate of eggs, bacon, pancakes, and toast. Pratt can feel himself salivate, staring anxiously at it.

“Sit,” Jacob doesn’t bother looking up. Conversation in the room returns to normal.

Pratt takes a seat across from him, watching a hand push a bowl and spoon his way. White goop sits inside, not quite looking like oatmeal. The first bite tells him it’s cream of wheat. It’s bland, but Pratt doesn’t care. He greedily devours — 

“Slow down,” Jacob reminds. He slows down, earning an approving grunt.

Staci takes the time to sneak glances at Jacob between each bite. The military jacket hanging off of his shoulders looks well-loved and worn around the collar. There is something else hanging next to his dog tags, but Pratt can’t quite make out what it is. He squints at it, nearly missing his mouth as he takes another bite. Pratt turns upward, looking back at Jacob’s face. Scarred tissue and burns are mostly on one side, sneaking down into his beard. There is an exhaustion that sits around his eyes, making them look sunken in, despite the sharp alertness sitting within.

Jacob is staring at him. Pratt’s spoon clatters noisily in his bowl, flinching.

“Done, Pratt?” Jacob asks. It’s quiet, again. He can hear his heart beating in his throat, neck and cheeks a bright red.

“Yes, sir,” Pratt returns, quickly, embarrassed.

Jacob nods, rising up from his seat, “Good. We have work to do.” 

Work consists of trailing after Jacob with a yellow legal pad and a pen in hand. Jacob walks the perimeter with two other cultists. They must be former military, spying the patches and service stripes sewn into their jackets. They’re busy critiquing the wall, Jacob informing him what to write down on the pad. Staci scrawls them down, trying to write everything he’s saying verbatim.

Their walk takes the group moving towards the front gates, Staci, finally, seeing where he has been thrown into: St. Francis Veterans Hospital. Pratt’s shoulders wilt. He’s the furthest point away from county lines. If the rookie somehow managed to make her way outside of the county, he’d be the last to be rescued.

Staci makes tally marks on the top right corner of the page, trying to keep track of how many days he spent in here and the three day journey to the county’s border prediction by the Whitetail militia member. He guesses he’s been here around nine days. Meaning, the rookie should be outside of Hope County, already. Five days, maybe? To hold out? Staci scratches the tally marks out, looking back up to find Jacob casting a knowing look his way.

Staci shrinks and silently moves forward.

He should be scouting out his surroundings, but every time he starts to pay attention to the world around him — discreetly, now —  Jacob has something he needs to write down. 

_We need, at minimum, 40 cases of N95s._

_20 yards of wire for the western wall._

_Move drills to 5am._

Then they’re moving. A location, a gate, a doorway all forgotten. 

Their next task is observing a small unit made up of thirty or so men and women. They are split into pairs, sparring one another. They’re dressed differently, all wearing a red, long sleeved shirt underneath a greyed out jacket. Eden Project’s insignia is etched onto their right arm in a faded orange. All of them are of a different build than the other. They’re more broad, legs thicker, muscles not wasted away like so many of the other cultists underneath the Seeds’ control. They’re strong.

They pause only to acknowledge Jacob with a nod before returning to their practice. 

Jacob observes them in silence, quietly pacing amongst the sectioned off groups with a critiquing eye. Nothing is spoken. Occasionally, he’ll stretch out a hand to fix a shoulder or widen a stance, but he prowls quietly amongst his men. He makes his rounds, looping his way back to Staci. Staci can feel his back straighten at his approach, attentive. 

He makes a gesture towards the men. “‘ _He was a killer, a thing that preyed, living on the things that lived, unaided, alone, by virtue of his own strength and prowess, surviving triumphantly in a hostile environment where only the strong survive_ ,’” he recites, giving one final look at them before turning towards Staci. “They are the Chosen. The clearest of minds who carry purpose. They are those who face revelation uncowed.” 

That stirs a nervous energy out of Staci, shifting in discomfort. He averts his gaze from Jacob’s, staring at his legal pad. He hardly gets the impression Jacob is speaking in biblical terms. 

Jacob provides no further explanation and turns to the watch on his wrist. He motions for Staci to follow, leaving the Chosen behind. 

 

**✠✠✠✠✠**

 

Noon marks a train of vehicles bearing cages coming through the gates. There is barking from within, Staci spying the snouts of dogs pressing through the bars. They’re being driven deeper into the compound, the two following from behind. Staci’s gait comes to a stutter when he sees the cages all over again. His cage is to his left. Someone is there, curled up in one of the corners. Staci shudders, remembering.

He can feel the push of panic against his chest. He stumbles his way after Jacob, blinking erratically, inhaling that familiar scent of mud and blood. Someone is calling out for water. It sounds like him. It sounds like them. Fear blooms from his feet, slingshotting itself into his gut. He sucks in the air loudly and it sticks. The air is stuck in his throat, now, beginning to panic, his own fingers pushing into the flesh of his neck. Jacob turns, coming to a halt. 

“Breathe,” he coaches, voice dropping into that low, familiar rasp, “exhale.”

It’s not working. He’s still drowning in his own paralysis, throat giving a choked noise. 

Jacob’s forehead furrows, moving closer. A hand grips one side of his face, firm, and almost unbearably hot. Jacob’s face brushes against the other side, mouth somewhere near his ear. 

_“Only you can make all this world seem right,”_ he’s crooning softly into his ear. There is a sliver of confusion through the crash of panic. Then, clarity. The music? _“Only you can make the darkness bright,”_ softly slips into his ear and the panic grows dull. Jacob’s breath is searing the inside of his ear, Staci beginning to follow every intake and exhale of air. 

Jacob leaves, stepping back, but Pratt can still feel the warm air hitting his ear and the music. _“Only you and you alone can thrill me like you do.”_

He makes a motion to follow and Pratt follows. They leave the larger cages, moving closer to what looks like a large pen. Cutlists are moving the cages and kennels from the truck into the pen, stacking them on top of each other. The barking of the dogs sound muffled and far away.

_“And fill my heart with love for only you.”_

Jacob points to the spot beside him and Pratt shuffles his way there, lost in a fog. He feels equally as far away as the sounds around him, numb to the present world. 

_Wake up, Pratt._

The volume turns up and Pratt stumbles into Jacob. He mumbles an apology, but Jacob seems disinterested, looking at the cages. 

“This typically occurs in a different location. I requested this shipment of dogs to come here, specifically for you to learn,” Jacob explains, hoisting himself over the pen. Dread settles under the surface of Staci’s skin, wary of what this lesson may be. “Come.” Staci stares in confusion at his pad, unsure of what to do. “Leave it.” He leaves the pad and pen on the ground, awkwardly pulling himself over to join Jacob. 

“An animal is born with inherit traits, some of them good, some of them bad,” he lectures, moving past the rows of dogs. Staci spies dog collars around most of them. Most are snarling or yelping at them, either front and center towards the door, or acting brave from deep within their kennel. “Inside that mind is a cluttered, polluted mess. Too many options, too many weaknesses.” He pauses in front of one of the cages. A border collie is curled up in the back of the cage, cowering. 

“Once you domesticate an animal…a person, they’re soft. Weak. It takes work and great sacrifice to unlearn it all,” Jacob continues, voice pensive. He gives a hum and opens the kennel, reaching out and grabbing the border collie by the scruff of its neck. He deposits the dog on the floor, watching it tuck its tail underneath itself, making itself small. 

Jacob sighs and grabs at something hanging next to his dog tags. Staci watches him closely, realizing that the other items dangling around his neck were whistles and…a rabbit’s foot? Jacob moves one of the whistles up to his mouth, speaking around it, “I want you to watch and learn.” 

The whistle makes a hissing sound, faint and nearly unheard, but all the remaining dogs in their cages and kennels perk up. Jacob isn’t looking towards them, he’s looking at the massive blur of white bounding its way towards them. Staci’s immediate reaction is to back into walls of the pen, hands groping behind him for support.

It’s a fucking wolf. Staci gapes at the image of a hulking mass of fur easily hoisting itself into the cage. Some of the dogs are barking in a frenzy, the loud deafening. Confusion and shock overwhelms the urge to panic, staring at one of Whitetail Mountain’s native white wolf. This one is larger, bearing a red marking across its head in the shape of a cross. The wolf exposes its teeth to him, lips curled back, giving a cautionary growl.

“Just like the Chosen, Judges see with clarity,” Jacob continues, lips pulled into a rare smile. He walks towards the wolf, whose eyes are still fixated on Staci. “They no longer share the unfiltered, crippling traits of their brethren. No, their design has been distilled,” he hums, a rough hand skating across the back of the wolf. “But the power of authorship exists. Now there is no flight, there is only fight. Judges cull the heard of the sick, the old, the weak, and the unworthy.”

Staci stares, feeling his eyes swim with water. Something indescribable courses through his system, staring with stunned stupor at the sight. “Holy shit,” he shakily heaves, mortified. His eyebrows rise and fall, mind whirling, overheating. This - he doesn’t want to see this. He doesn’t want to see this lesson anymore. But he can’t leave. His feet are stuck and knees locked in.

Jacob leaves the wolf, murmuring a command that has the beast sitting on its haunches, growling subsiding. He makes his way back, but is walking straight towards Pratt. He can feel his hands spasm at his sides, unsure whether to ball up into fists or not. Something shifts against Pratt’s foot, pulling his attention away.

The border collie is practically sitting on his foot, leaning into him. It gives a pleading whimper when Jacob draws near, backing up further into Staci.

Jacob crouches down next to them, his hand moving to reach for the dog. Pratt shifts a foot forward. As if ready to move towards Jacob. To kick. To push. To urge away.The action is quickly aborted, Jacob’s hand frozen in mid-air. Staci stares, wide-eyed, an apology ready to leave his mouth. Jacob’s mouth gives an upturned twitch before pulling the border collie closer to him.

“Let’s see. It looks like this is,” he hums, fingers looking at the collar, turning it so he can see the tags, “this is Peaches.” Jacob gives a _‘hmph’_ , unclipping the collar and handing it up for Staci to take. Staci grabs it, fingers tightly squeezing it.

“Peaches, look at me,” Jacob speaks firmly to the dog, moving a hand to direct the dog’s face towards him, “you have a choice. You can prove to me there is fight in you…or none at all.” A nervous wag of the tail is given, thumping against the ground. Peaches’ head turns and licks at the inside of Jacob’s wrist.

Staci grinds his teeth, vision blurry.

Jacob turns the dog around and gives it a push forward from its rear. The dog resists, paws digging into the mud. It, instantly, is retreating away from the wolf and walking its way back towards Staci, hunched forward. Staci can see the blurred image and he’s shaking his head, trying to tell it to go elsewhere. Pleading with it.

_Don’t walk back. Don’t walk back. Don’t walk back._

“Peaches,” Jacob calls out, deceptively sweet. The dog walks towards him, submissive. “I’m going to give you one more chance. Fight,” he instructs, a hand moving back to the thick fur around its neck, giving an urgent tug, “go. _Go_.” He releases the dog and gives another push. Harder, this time, Peaches sliding almost into the middle of the pen.

Peaches turns and walks back.

_Don’t do it. Stop. Go the other way. Go the other way._

“Sasha,” Jacob calls out, disappointed, the Judge wolf stirring from its spot, “cull the herd.”

It takes a moment before the Judge races towards the border collie, teeth sinking into its neck. Peaches gives a disturbing cry, quickly silenced by maddening jerks, the Judge whipping the dog’s body back and forth. It’s over within seconds. The Judge drags Peaches off to its previous spot in the pen. Staci doesn’t have the heart to watch anymore of this, face feeling wet.

“Don’t look away,” Jacob’s voice cuts through, followed by the sound of another cage door being open, “never look away. Look straight at everything. Look it all in the eye, good and bad.”

Peaches’ collar is being squeezed in one of his hands, the tag digging into his palm.Staci rubs his eyes with the back of his sleeve, forcing himself to stare at Jacob. Staci’s chin is beginning to wobble, but he keeps himself put, maintaining eye contact.

Jacob gives a low noise in approval, “Good. _Good._ You’re learning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _What did you like? What would you like more of? Tell me in a review!_


	5. Something Worth Protecting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"To do what is right and just is more acceptable to the Lord than sacrifice.”_ \- Proverbs 21:3

**March 2018** ►►►

 

_Wake up._

Staci Pratt’s eyes open, jumping back, his shoulder knocking into something hard. He whirls to his left, hands held up to his face, to find he bumped into…a helicopter? His heart thuds with the abrupt shock, standing, gaping at the emblazoned Hope County’s Sheriff’s Department logo. Staci presses his face against the window, squinting. The helicopter is lit up inside, but the colors are muted, caught in a haze. 

It’s his. This is his. How did it — 

He’s been here before. He’s _done_ this already.

Staci pulls back from the helicopter, turning to look at his surroundings, a queer look drawing on his face. The world about him is plunged in that familiar darkness: thick and suffocating. His breath hitches, shoulders turning rigid and back straight. He turns and slowly peeks through the cockpit window, again.

Nothing. Nobody is waiting. Pratt releases a held in breath. 

He pulls away, turning back to his lackluster environment. Think. Think. Pratt closes his eyes, digging fingers into the side of his skull. Hudson. He called for Hudson. Then, everything lit up.

He opens his eyes, clears his throat, and calls out instead, “Lamb?”

The side door to the helicopter slides open, loudly clicking in place. Someone of athletic build jumps out onto the dirt, bearing the Hope County Sheriff’s Department logo on new, still-stiff-uniform. It’s Deputy Lamb — or something like Lamb. Lamb’s face is gone, features buffed out until there is only a bone white canvas, bearing the likeness of a mannequin’s head. 

Staci sucks in the air noisily, retreating a few steps to the right. Lamb mechanically moves beside him, facing the darkness before them. 

There is singing in the background, words indecipherable and voice distant.

_Come closer._

The words construct themselves in streaks of light on the floor beneath them, flickering like dying LED lights. He can even hear the lights’ filaments buzzing. Pratt squints and turns his head away from the obtrusive glare, looking back to the helicopter. It’s all the same. Everything is the same. He’s back in Joseph Seed’s compound.

Junior Deputy Lamb doesn’t seem to notice the writing on the ground or the strangeness of the situation; they move forward, world splitting into shades of grays and reds. Pratt sputters, words lost, rushing after them. 

The singing is louder, now, the collection of intertwined voices thrown together. 

 _Come closer,_ the words dances across one of buildings. 

Lamb continues to move, walking briskly. Staci grabs at one of their wrists, jerking them into an abrupt stop. His mouth opens and closes uselessly, moving so he’s in front of Lamb. There is nothing to make eye contact with. He releases the wrist to drag a hand through his hair. 

Lamb moves, pushing past him. 

“W-wait, stop!” Pratt breathes out, scrambling around and groping for Lamb’s wrist.

 ** _Move forward_** , urgently crawls across Lamb’s back. Staci ignores it by hurrying to Lamb’s front, breathing, now, laborious and loud. 

“We can’t go there,” Pratt explains, moving a spare hand onto Lamb’s forearm. **WRONG,** flares across Lamb’s faceless features. His eyes dart past Lamb’s shoulder, forehead crinkling at the sight of the helicopter. “Uh…we got…we got to go back. Okay?” he’s trying to reason, pushing Lamb back. **WEAK**. Lamb moves with Pratt, moving with slow and heavy steps. **WRONG. WEAK. WEAK. FAILURE.** Pratt’s foot slips on the floor, careening forward. His hands find the ground before making impact, palm slipping in mud. **COWARD,** drags itself into existence before him on the dirt. He scrambles upward, trying to find purchase, but his fingers slip into the chasm of light — 

Something grabs him. Something curls around the tip of his submerged fingers, tugging. 

“Oh f-f-,” he’s shrieking, throwing himself back, fingers free. He’s scrabbling back on his feet, groping for the back of Lamb’s uniformed shirt. 

**TURN AROUND.**

_“We got to go! We got to go! We got to go!_ ” His voice is cracking, pulling Lamb away from the helicopter. He shoves Lamb, trying to coax the deputy into a sprint, but Lamb seems painfully unaware. They’ll jog a few steps before falling into a slow, mechanical stride. _“You got to move!”_ he shrieks, purposely avoiding the words stretching and burning before them, attempting to block their path.

He slips again, but his head knocks painfully against something hard on his fall down. He can feel something wet slide across his forehead. 

Pratt jerks his head up, staring at the control panel of the helicopter, awkwardly jammed between both seats in the cockpit. He’s inside. He’s back inside the helicopter. **BACK ON THE PATH OR FAIL.** He can feel himself growing lightheaded, watching aggressive text coat the cockpit windows, hiding a world twisting into brighter shades of red. 

“— mazing grace, how sweet the sound. That saved a wretch like _meeeee_.”

Pratt cocks his head towards the sound, staring at muddied boots. Pratt thuds his head against one of the seats, body shaking.

 _“_ How is this fair?! I didn’t even want to be here! _”_ He cries into the leather seat.

_Try again._

_._

_._

_._

_Wake up._

Staci Pratt’s eyes open, jumping back, his shoulder knocking into something hard. He whirls to his left, hands held up to his face, to find he bumped into…a helicopter?

 

**✠✠✠✠✠**

 

Pratt is hobbling over towards the caravan of trucks, carrying with another cultist a green-colored drum of what they call “Bliss.” He’s the only one with gloves on, which are a bit big on him. He’s uncomfortably sweating in them despite the early morning chill, but he doesn’t quite mind. While sealed tight, he can smell whatever is sloshing down below, reminiscent of laughing gas — that faintly sweet aroma coupled with the beginnings of euphoria. They walk it up the ramp before moving back down towards the next one. 

He catches a glimpse of Jacob, still talking to two other cultists. His hands are crossed before his chest, face unreadable. Staci feigns fixing his gloves.

“— supposed to get that dog for us. It’s one of them Blue Heelers. Some sort of regional champion,” one of the cultists is explaining, “it ain’t a young dog, tho.”

Jacob gives a nod, his eyes drifting from the cultists and settling on him. His brows give a slight pinch and Pratt shuffles back to the drums of Bliss.

“Alright, we will be moving out in ten. Drivers, radios should be on,” Jacob calls out a half hour later, motioning for Pratt to come towards him. Pratt jogs toward him, peeling off the gloves. “You’re in the second truck with me. Passenger seat,” he informs. Pratt stares for a moment, Jacob returning to look at a clipboard in his hands. He’s been dismissed, but Pratt lingers, unsure. 

Gingerly he moves to the assigned truck, worrying his gloves. He didn’t expect to be a part of this trip. 

Sitting in the passenger seat, he settles with a grimace, staring at the image of Jacob in the side mirror. He, eventually, turns away, staring at the driver’s seat. There is no key in sight. Pratt peeks at the side mirror, again. Jacob hasn’t moved. 

He flips the sun visor down on the passenger seat. Nothing. He leans over and does the same for the driver’s side. Only scraps of paper pinned behind the mirror. He turns to the center console, pulling it open. Nothing, save for a small, leather binder. He sneaks a glance at the mirror. Jacob is gone, but he’s nowhere near the trucks. 

Pratt flips open the binder, staring at folded maps, receipts, and errant notes on lined paper. Some look like time schedules for…shipments? Pratt has no clue, squinting and trying to absorb as much as he can. Pratt abandons the binder, placing it back in the console when he hears a door nearby slam shut. 

He goes for the glove compartment, next. A 9mm compact sits above folded vehicle registration forms. Staci lunges for it, cradling it. He twists in his seat, eyes darting everywhere. No one is looking at him. He turns back to the gun, giving a shaky exhale. He has to run. He just has to run. He just doesn’t know where. The gates are still closed. Should he hide it? Wait until they’re on the road?

The driver’s door opens, Staci jolting in his seat, stunned. Jacob takes a seat, the truck giving a slight bounce at the added weight. He casts a glance at Pratt, who, now, has the gun pointed in his direction.

“I’d be careful there, cowboy,” he warns, a semblance of a smile curling at the edges of his mouth. 

Staci says nothing, arms stretched out, flipping the safety off. He can’t do anything to stop the shake. 

Jacob’s eyes the muzzle of the gun before sighing, leaning back in his seat. 

“You either commit to this or put it back.” 

“Let me go,” he croaks out. 

Jacob shakes his head, lips pinching together. “No can do. I got you for five months, remember?” Pratt doesn’t remember, face contorting into confusion and anguish. He jerks the gun a bit, shaking his head.

“I won’t tell anyone. I promise,” Pratt pleads, voice breathy. 

Jacob rolls his eyes, his shoulders sagging back into the cheap leather. 

“Bargaining,” he sighs, disappointed. He twists in his seat so his chest is facing Pratt, pointing a finger at the handgun. “You have a gun in your hand and you want to bargain. Don’t bargain. Don’t plead. Don’t beg. _Act_ ,” Jacob lectures, “control the scene.” 

Pratt stays put, gun aimed straight at Jacob Seed. Then, eye contact falters. His arm starts to bend, the gun turning down towards the emergency brake. 

Pratt’s forefinger stretches out, flipping the safety back on. He keeps his head down as he deposits the gun back in the glove compartment. 

The silence is deafening until Jacob places the key in the ignition, but he doesn’t turn it completely. The truck dings softly.  

“I’m sure when you were little, you wanted a dog, hmm?” Jacob inquires, voice even and pragmatic. Pratt responds with a nod. “So you beg your mom for a dog. Promise to take care of it. Finally, you get one. But you don’t take care of the dog. You don’t feed the dog. Walk the dog. Pick up after the dog. So the dog shits in the house. It gets sick. Destroys the house when you’re gone. What does your mom do?”

Pratt stays quiet. 

“She shows you how to feed the dog. Walk the dog. Pick up after the dog. Take care of the dog, but she only does it once,” Jacob continues, “I already showed you what happens to the incapable. I will only do it once.” His hand reaches over, body leaning towards Staci, pulling open the glove compartment. He takes out the 9mm and places it on the dashboard.

“You pull this out, again, you better be ready to use it, _Peaches_.”

 

**✠✠✠✠✠**

 

The trucks arrive safely at a place called Elk Jaw Lodge, the sun, still, not out, but the sky beginning to transform into a murky gray. The drums of Bliss are moved off of the trucks and deposited near the main building without prompt. Jacob doesn’t have him helping like before, instead keeping him by his side.

“What’s the time, Peaches?” Jacob asks, but his eyes are looking elsewhere and there is something riddling through the older man’s voice that sounds…dismissive. Disappointed. Staci flinches at both the nickname and tone, cheeks burning.

He turns to his watch. “6:36, sir,” he returns, quietly. 

“Trucks should be out of here by 0700,” Jacob calls out, earning an affirmative from the cultists. The rest of the time is spent unloading the trucks, Jacob the quiet observer. Staci has nothing to do other than to stand just a foot behind him, holding his hands behind his back. It leaves him anxious and unsettled, less focused on trying to understand his new surroundings and more on the back of Jacob’s head.  

The trucks end up leaving five minutes ahead of schedule.  

Jacob makes his rounds around the perimeter, Staci grateful he still has the legal pad and pen on his person. He jots down his critiques, even when they’re immediately resolved. 

They move into the lodge, the air smelling somewhat of the sweetness from the Bliss canisters and pine. There is a TV crackling to life, mounted on the underside of the second floor’s balcony inside. A young man peers through the screen, barely visible through the random streaks of snow dragging across the screen. He can’t hear what he’s saying. 

He squints at the screen, realizing this must be John Seed, recognizing the heavily tattooed hand. He’s raising his hands, face coming in and out from the poor signal. Hudson shows on the screen, mascara streaked down her face, and duct tape over her mouth. 

Pratt’s lips go thin and he turns away. 

“We’re going to be here for some time. You’re going to be bunking with me,” Jacob explains matter-of-factly as they move through the lodge, climbing onto the second floor. He points to the only door down the hallway. Pratt nearly trips over his own feet, stomach dropping. 

Jacob sticks his head in the lodge’s office, one of Jacob’s men handing him a piece of paper from behind a desk. Jacob passes it to Staci. It’s an agenda of what needs to be completed for the day. 

The first on the list is properly overseeing the securing of the Bliss containers and drums. 

There are a total of twenty-five drums and ten crates. The crates are stored within a fenced off area covered by green tarp. The drums are rolled in the basement where it is cooler. Staci catches a glance of series of cages down below, carrying mostly dogs that either look sedated or are biting at the bars. 

Jacob calls for him to hurry when he lingers for too long.

Pratt begins to realize Jacob is a stickler for the details, preferring to somehow be engaged in all operations within the outpost. He won’t move onto the next item on the agenda until he is content. So far he’s spent a half an hour showing four Peggies how to dismantle and properly clean one of their mounted, heavy-machine guns. He shows them once, taking great care to name each piece and component. Then, he stays put, humming and grunting his approval or disapproval until they demonstrate satisfactory work. There is an unsettling, deep well of patience that defines Jacob Seed.

The next stop is towards a section of cages, four crowded next to the other and forming a larger square. Someone is standing next to one of the cages, scrawling something down on a clipboard. She’s tall, fairly older than Jacob, and slim, head completely shaved. An old, faded tattoo of a skull creeps over her right shoulder and words Pratt can’t make out stretches across her left arm.

Her hand immediately stretches out towards Jacob and Jacob takes it. 

“Good, you’re here. All the charts have been updated as of last night,” she hands off the clipboard to Jacob. She shoots Pratt a terse look, the freckles and sunburned flesh crinkling across her nose. 

“Thought I had five that could go out by the end of this week. I see four,” Jacob comments, pulling her attention away. 

“Yeah. About that one. Got into a scuffle with the others during the last trial. Didn’t want to be making the final call until you’ve given it a look,” she makes a motion off to the right, to another part of the fenced off area. 

Jacob grunts, passing back the clipboard, “Show me.” 

Three larger cages are grouped together, more oblong in shape. There is the distinct scent of blood and disinfectant mixed together, causing Staci to make a face. Only two wolves occupy the cages. One restlessly paces back and forth, hardly giving pause at the visitors. The other is sitting on its haunches, one of its front legs heavily bandaged, along with its throat. Part of its fur must have been shaved off for stitches or whatever procedure took place, pink skin exposed around the bandaging on the neck. 

The injured wolf bares its teeth at their approach, but doesn’t growl.

“Picked a fight. Didn’t win. Shit happens,” the woman concludes, gesturing to the laminated paper zip-tied to the cage. Jacob stares at the writing, a finger running down its surface. “It’ll take too long to fix this one. Wound got infected two nights back. May get better, may go south. Quicker and cheaper to just train another,” she continues, a hand rising and falling to her side, “just my recommendation.” 

Jacob is nodding, “Get rid of it tonight. We’ll stick with four this week, but next week I want six.” 

“You got it — ”

“You’re going to kill it? Just like that?” 

Eyes turn towards Staci Pratt, holding onto his legal pad and having, almost, gone unnoticed by the two. He didn’t realize he moved closer with his outburst, just a foot away from the cage and earning the ire of the wolf through a warning snarl. He resists the urge to scuttle back, but he keeps his hands a bit closer to his chest.  

The woman gives an incredulous sound, but Jacob holds a hand up, silencing her. He crosses his arms over his chest, making a gesture with his head for Pratt to continue. 

“Are you going to commit to what you started or shut up?” Jacob calmly asks when Pratt doesn’t speak up right away. He doesn’t need to add on the _Peaches_. He can hear it in the silence, flinching.

Staci works his jaw, his fingers curling a bit tighter over the pad. “You can’t just get rid of people and animals because they’re hurting and it’s…an inconvenience to you,” he starts off, words a strange warble. Jacob isn’t stopping him and he tries to speak up louder, slightly encouraged by the silence, “I don’t get you. You’ll spend time showing someone how to clean a gun, but you can’t wait for someone to heal?” 

Nothing. Jacob says nothing, face falling back to its indecipherable, default state.

“Just wait. Give them a chance,” Pratt adds, starting to lose his steam at the lack of a response, “you lose more when you give up on them.”

“Unfortunately, we are at a stage where the lives of the few outweigh the lives of the many,” Jacob corrects, earning an exasperated noise rushing out of Pratt’s nose and mouth.

“That’s such bull…” he begins, but it fades into silence. There is something suddenly off saturating the space between them that he can’t pinpoint.

“You’re asking me to spend more time, money, and resources on nursing it back to health, correct?” Jacob reiterates. Pratt gives a nod.  “That would take weeks, if not longer,” he adds. Pratt doesn’t nod for that one. “Life isn’t fair, Peaches,” he gives his answer, already making the motions of turning his back to Pratt in a damning dismissal. 

He stops. 

Two fingers point at him, “But you can make it fair.” 

Staci can’t fight off the wave of dread that bashes against his stomach, worryingly looking up at Jacob. 

“I don’t have the space to care for this one. You can make space,” he explains, reaching out to lay a hand on the cage, “trade places with it.” 

“If you say ‘yes’, you will stay there until the Judge is either fully rehabilitated or dies. You will be treated just like any other Judge. Say ’no’ and nothing happens. We move on with today’s agenda.”

The deputy opens his mouth, but Jacob shakes his head. He’s not finished. 

“Out of all the moments to stand for something, it should have been this morning with the gun. To take a stand for _yourself_. That would be something to fight for. This? Don’t let your crucible come from misplaced guilt over a weak animal.” 

Pratt looks elsewhere, staring at his own boots.

Jacob must have moved closer, because a hand is directing Staci’s eyes back towards him, refusing to let the deputy shrink away from his gaze. 

“Last call, Peaches,” he murmurs, “are you going to commit to what you started or shut up?” He adds, eyes searching his face, “You _can_ say ‘no’.” 

Staci sucks in the air deeply before exhaling quietly. The moment drags on, Pratt’s nervousness morphing into nausea. But, he surprises himself. Hates himself, even. He nods in Jacob’s hand. 

“Yeah. I’ll do it. I’ll trade places.”

Jacob draws away slowly, throwing him a queer look. Pratt staggers back a step, considering leaning against the cage for support, but decides against it last moment. He settles for placing a hand on his waist, the color in his skin leaching, forehead glistening with sweat.

“Once this starts, there is no pause. No breaks,” Jacob adds. Pratt raises his eyes towards Jacob, who stares back, eyes still searching him. 

“Okay.” 


	6. In the Forest Hides a Light (Pt. 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Without growing weary, you have persevered and endured many things for the sake of My name.” **\- Revelations 2:4**_

“Any regrets?”

They’re seated so close that Pratt could count Jacob’s scars on his right cheek if he wanted. His cheek jumps, jaw moving as he chews on something that smells and looks like something dunked in tomato sauce. A metal spoon scrapes against the walls of an aluminum can. Pratt is too slow to fight off the flinch that comes when metal clicks against Jacob’s teeth. 

“No.”

_Yes._

He misses the cot. The privacy of the cell. The pseudo-functional toilet. The comforts of his apartment drift in, but it leaves him with a different ache that sits in his throat. Pratt pushes the memory back into the recesses of his skull. 

Jacob grunts in response, giving no impression he believes the statement or not. He continues to eat in silence, save for the scrape, scrape, scraping of the spoon and the soft sound of him swallowing. Pratt sits uneasily in the cage, fingers worrying the fabric of his uniform jacket. 

It’s fucking unnerving: Jacob perched on a fold out chair against the side of the cage, legs kicked out, lax, as he eats. He can feel the skin around the collar and armpits of his jacket grow warm and wet with perspiration. Pratt’s eyes dart from his own fingers picking at a loose thread to the corner pocket of Jacob’s jaw. 

The spoon sits still in the can when Jacob is done. He says nothing as he rises from his seat and leaves. 

Pratt heaves for air the moment he’s out of sight, releasing the swallowed air with a shaky noise. This is only day one. 

 

**✠✠✠✠✠**

 

There are two things guaranteed to all Judges at all times: clean water and two meals a day. They’re treated better than the unfortunate Whitetail militia members or any strays, like himself, who’ve been caught.

The meal is more of a slop of dog food and raw, ground beef mixed together, but it’s something. The tattooed woman who led Jacob around the cages days prior — Deborah, or at least what he overheard someone call her in passing —  is the one to point out the inevitable: “You’re going to get sick. Your stomach isn’t cut out for this. I’d tap out if I were you.” 

There. There it is. That familiar prickling of regret. 

He watches her leave to continue her rounds before staring at the metallic bowl of pinkish and brown mess. As much as Jacob assured him, at the start, that there will be no breaks or pauses, he gets the impression he can. He just needs to admit this was a mistake. Admit it and he could — _maybe —_ go back to the comforts of the cell, warm meals throughout the day, and a shower. 

_Just admit you fucked up, grovel, and you can go back to being his shadow._

Pratt stares at the bowl, grinding his teeth. 

His caged neighbor breaks him out of his thoughts, the metal chain acting as a collar loudly clanking against its own bowl. He watches it scarf the meal down, nose buried in the food. 

Giving a heavy sigh through his nostrils, Pratt leans forward and drags his bowl closer to him. He digs his fingers into the food and pushes it into his mouth, chewing carefully. The food carries a strange taste of both nothingness and the overindulgence of salt from the processed dog food. He tries to eat a decent fill, washing it down with water. 

Deborah comes back a few hours later, lips pinched thin, frowning. “Glad to know common sense is dead,” she remarks, but the familiar bite in her voice is gone, “you’re going to regret that.”

He regrets volunteering to arrest Joseph Seed. 

He regrets looking away as Hudson kicked and screamed.  

He regrets not pulling the trigger.

Pratt’s not sure if he regrets this or not. 

Jacob shows up later in the evening, like clockwork. Drags a chair next to the cage, but this time he doesn’t have food in his hands. He sits forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands and fingers dangling in the air. Pratt shifts, noisily, on his spot on the dirt floor, masking the sound his stomach is churning out. 

“Any regrets?” Simple. Curious. 

“No,” he replies, quickly. 

Jacob nods and leaves. 

Pratt heaves for air the moment he’s out of sight, moving a hand underneath his shirt to press his fingers into the underside of his stomach. 

“I told you,” Deborah is shouting out over the sound of the running hose, her prophecy of vomit fulfilled the next day. She’s sticking her thumb partially in to create a spray. The scent of sick and the streaky display of bile is disappearing. Pratt is, temporarily, outside of the cage, too exhausted to wait on his feet. 

There is hollow relief sitting in his gut, breathing through his mouth as the sun warms his face. The heat makes him more aware of the grease, dirt and grime creating a thick layer over his skin. Makes him more aware of the rancid, sweaty odor leaving him. 

“You still gonna do this?” 

Pratt nods, closing his eyes. 

A long, suffering sigh fills the air in response. 

“I’ll get a bucket.”

 

**✠✠✠✠✠**

 

There is a bitter chill that nips at Pratt’s nose ten days in, stirring him from a, strangely, dreamless slumber. His lower back pinches and he sticks his chest out until there is a distinctive _pop_. Pratt rubs his nose until it warms up, resettling back in his corner. The green tarp covering three sides and the top of the cage does a fair job suppressing the constantly cool weather cycling in from the mountains.

He watches the yellow haze of the lodge’s lamps swirl around the entrances, attracting moths and mosquitoes alike. He watches the familiar cut out of Jacob Seed, walking across the lodge’s grounds. He’s dressed out of his military jacket, wearing only a shirt and jeans. Jacob, eventually, walks out of his line of sight. 

Pratt turns his head to the other side of the cage, staring listlessly at the next pocket of light boring down. It takes ten minutes before there is the crunch of boots on dirt. It takes another minute for Jacob to walk past the cage. He doesn’t stop. He moves on, hands curled at his side, the back of his shirt wetly clinging onto his back. 

Jacob walks three laps around the lodge before Pratt is closing his eyes, falling back asleep.

“Rise and shine, Peaches.”

Jacob is sitting on the foldout chair next to the cage, a mug of coffee in hand. His eyes look more sunken in, exhaustion sitting underneath in shades of blue.

Pratt inhales the scent of coffee as he cracks his back. A morning visit. That is a rarity, usually one reserved for haunting social commentary on whatever rattles inside Jacob’s skull. Pratt stretches his arms and adjusts himself in preparation.

Pratt will admit, for all of Jacob’s grim outlooks and Darwinistic approach to life, Jacob does understand the world. Only one part of the world: it’s wild savagery.

It’s why Staci is convinced that the only reason why Jacob continues to ask him, each evening, the same old question — _Any regrets? —_ is because Jacob doesn’t understand the _why_. There is no test. No script to be followed. He cannot grasp why anyone would willingly do this and for an animal he has no connection to or with.

It’s a running theory. Harebrained, really. 

“John found your Deputy Lamb,” Jacob breaks the news. 

That knocks the wind out of Pratt, catching him off guard. His eyes slide away from Jacob, dragging themselves to a spot between the bars, lost. 

He thought… 

But… 

Pratt closes his eyes, pushing his fingers through greasy locks. The Rookie was _supposed_ to make it over county lines, calling in the National Guard. National Guard was _supposed_ to be liberating Hope County. It must have been a month already. Why has no one called in their absences? God, has his mom been trying his cell? Trying the Sheriff’s office?

“— is going to be Cleansed,” Jacob is continuing, Pratt slowly returning to the one-sided conversation. 

“What?” Pratt rasps out, clearing his throat afterwards. He’s remembering, now, how little he actually knows of Eden’s Gate. “What does that mean?” 

Jacob stares down at him, fingers curled loosely around the coffee mug. He seems to be contemplating something, face pensive. Whatever the decision is, it’s settled with an audible exhale through his nostrils. 

“Baptism,” he replies. 

Pratt almost laughs at the simple response. His hands slap against the bars, wrapping around the iron, and dares to pull himself closer towards Jacob.  “It can’t be that simple,” he protests, something like panic beginning to bubble in his gut. It feels too much like nausea for Pratt to trust it. 

_What if his mom decided to make the drive down to the office? Fuck. Nancy._

Jacob eyes his clenched hands, mouth sloped into a remnant of a smile, nodding in agreement, “Nothing is ever simple in Hope County.” He takes a sip of his coffee, leaning a bit further in to place it down on the ground. He gives pause. Enough to have Pratt fidgeting. 

“Joseph — ” Jacob pauses, correcting, “The Father must have found the Deputy worth keeping alive, if that’s what you’re worried about. The Cleansing is…removing the blinders. Just giving a moment of clarity. It’s not permanent.” 

Pratt exhales, air whistling past his teeth, sagging back onto his haunches for a moment. _Not permanent. Okay._ His hands slide down the bars. _Maybe_ there is a chance _,_ but that still doesn’t explain much.

“It never happens all at once, Peaches,” Jacob warns, the smile fading into something serious, “it’s slow. Careful. Exhausting…and not everyone has the stomach for it.” 

Staci shifts in discomfort, his tug-of-war between fickle relief and dread faltering into something somber. Pratt moves so he’s sitting crosslegged, hands returning to his lap.

An uncomfortable silence sits between them. 

“How is no one looking for us? Family, coworkers…” he, finally, asks. 

“John handles that,” Jacob responds, “E-mails, text messages…are enough to keep the peace.”

“It can’t be that simple,” Pratt retorts, earning a hum in approval. Jacob starts to stand, one hand reaching back to grab the seat and fold it as he rises. He takes it in hand, a clear sign the conversation is coming to an end.

“You should know better than most, Peaches, that curiosity kills the cat.” 

The saying sits there in the air — incomplete.  

The coffee mug remains untouched on the floor, however, steam curling faintly above it. Jacob sees it. They both see it. He leaves, humming under his breath.

Pratt works his jaw, staring at the mug. Two minutes pass. 

Then another. Jacob hasn’t returned.

Another.  Still no Jacob.

He takes a chance. He grabs for it, maneuvering the cup through the bars. His face scrunches up in preparation as he moves the cup against his lips. He takes a tentative sip. His face relaxes, taking a long gulp, relishing in the burn running down his throat. Pratt indulges in this small, escapist comfort until it disappears and the possibility of no outside help begins to trickle in.

 

**✠✠✠✠✠**

 

Jacob’s gone. 

He saw him leave early in the morning before the rest of the lodge could wake up, but not before standing at the entrance of the lodge, unmoving. Pratt watched through tired eyes Jacob stay put. Guarding. Watching. Pratt has no clue. Jacob only reanimated himself when he heard the sound of the lodge’s front doors opening and closing. Then, he’s gone. Wandered out of view, a truck leaving the complex ten minutes after.

The lodge reflects Jacob’s absence the moment it hits six ‘o clock. Jacob’s voice is being played over the intercoms — “ _basic survival. That’s when we were at our best. You see the world has become soft” —_ and the Judges are howling. They only stop when Deborah walks amongst the cages, shutting them up with breakfast. 

“You got a visitor,” she swings by his cage, opening it to fill the food bowl. She jabs a finger to her right before Pratt asks. He, finally, notices that there is an untethered Judge sitting in his blind spot. There are small patches of exposed skin — _Oh._ Pratt smiles, scooting closer to the cage’s bars, staring at the seated wolf. 

They look healthier than before. The bandaging on the leg is less intrusive and simple. The neck has healed nicely, fur already regrowing. 

“Hey,” he calls out. The Judge stares at him. “Hey, hi,” he continues, voice rising in pitch, baby-talking. Nothing. They continue to stare at him. 

Pratt frowns. He tries again, patting his lap, “Hi, come here.” He keeps on repeating it. Nothing. 

He’s suddenly turning to his food bowl, grabbing at the leftovers. He creates a small ball with his fingers and tosses it, the two of them watching it roll across the ground. He’s holding his breath, watching it stick its snout up in the air and sniff. 

A big whopping nothing. 

They respond by giving a yawn and looking elsewhere. Pratt frowns at the wolf, but doesn’t bother to make another go at it. He scoots back in his cage and leans against one of the walls, listening to the convincing tone of Jacob pouring out. 

_“— some of us trained as part of some of the finest fighting forces in the world. Army. Marines. Navy. Air Force. Now what do you think that cost? From the moment you enlisted to the moment you took your first duty station?”_

Deborah is walking back, giving pause, looking up in the direction of one of the intercoms. 

_“What do you think? What do you think is the cost of training you? I’ll tell you.”_

“It’s better hearing this one in person,” she comments with a smile. “Gave it right before ripping that goddamn ‘Closed’ sign off the gate at the VA’s hospital. Nearly cut his hand in half doing that.”

_“— in Special Forces? $150,000, minimum. So this nation, the one you all swore an oath to protect, invested in you. You invested, too. Time. Your lives. Everything. So what are you doing with that investment? Is anyone making $150,000 a year?_

_“Is it because you’re not worth the investment? No. It’s because your skills do not fit here. Society is unavailable to you the moment you come back home. It’s that simple._

_“You are fighters. Here at Eden’s Gate you will have the opportunity to fight for a living. You will be well compensated. Not just money. None of us joined for the paycheck. We joined because we wanted our lives to mean something. We wanted to be part of something bigger than ourselves. Here, if you are chosen and you make your sacrifice, you’ll find that something. A brotherhood to call your own. A roof over your head. Something to fight for — to live for.”_

Pratt watches Deborah, something looking like pride making her chest swell. 

“You were in the service,” he comments, distantly, Jacob’s voice still going on in the background. 

“U.S. Navy Nurse Corps; joined the minute I could,” she gives a curt nod, “I was part of the second team sent to Rach Gia to train Vietnamese medical personnel. God _damn_ , was it hard trying to….learn the language and customs while teaching how to triage,” she briefly moves away to grab the nearest stool, taking a seat, her hands animated as she talks.

“We had to travel by air to transport patients. Viet Cong would mine the roads at night, so we knew better, but…others didn’t. You’d have rusting buses carrying locals out of a village — now a war zone. _Bam —_ ” She emphasizes by slapping her hands together. “But our team, we pushed through, flooded with casualties. Didn’t have whole blood available. Amputations were done around the clock. Resting in half hour shifts — but we did not stop.”

There is a change. A beat. Something in her face falls, brows furrowing together above her nose. 

“Then you come home…and the reception is enough to give you freezer burn. Protestors spitting at you. Rejected. Your own friends scared of you. It makes places like this — the middle of nowhere —  a comfort,” she concludes, waving a hand towards the horizon. 

“Then Jacob comes in and offers…purpose,” Pratt supplies in realization, slowly digesting the scene, feeling strange.

“Goddamn straight. Animals aren’t my forte, but I do what I can,” Deborah is nodding vigorously, a hand slapping at her thigh, “I contribute.”

“…what was your sacrifice?” 

Her face darkens, quickly rising to her feet and grabbing at the stool. She opens her mouth, as if she might respond, but closes it shut. Her mouth contorts, the flesh around her lips turning white, before she sets the stool back down. She points to the side, walking off. 

“Looks like you made a friend,” she comments stiffly.

Pratt turns to find the Judge eating the thrown leftover. Hesitantly, it makes its way towards him, snuffling at the dirt for more. By the time Pratt looks back at Deborah to apologize, she’s gone. 

 

**✠✠✠✠✠**

 

_Wake up._

Staci’s eyes open, jumping back, expecting something to hit his shoulder when… Nothing. No helicopter. He’s still in the cage, only managing to have rolled himself into one of the cage’s sides. Pratt blinks at the bars and the green tarp lashed to the exterior before turning onto his back. His back and neck ache, having slept on it strange.  

It’s still night, hardly in the early morning hours yet — 

_“Christ!”_ Pratt swears, catching the dark, cut out shape of someone standing next to the cage. 

“Not exactly,” the voice returns, amused and familiar.

It’s Jacob. Pratt moves onto his knees, squinting through the gloom to get a better picture of the man. He must have just arrived, Jacob absent the entirety of the day — hell, the whole week. 

There is the sound of keys jangling before the door swings open. 

“You’re done, Peaches,” the nickname is spoken differently, this time. Benevolent, even. “You made your sacrifice.”

 

**END OF PART 1**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.”_


	7. In the Forest Hides a Light (Pt. 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“And I began to weep bitterly, because no one was found worthy to open the scroll or look inside it. Then one of the elders said to me, “Do not weep! Behold, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the root of David, has triumphed to open the scroll and its seven seals.” Then I saw a Lamb who appeared to have been slain, standing in the center of the throne, encircled by the four living creatures and the elders.”_ **\- Revelations 5:4-6**

**  
March 2018 ►►►** **  
**

**John Seed**

 

“The enemy of your soul does not want you to advance. Recognize and ignore its lies by listening to the word of the Father.”

His jeans have been rolled up to his knees, boots sitting somewhere on the back of one of the pickup trucks. There’s a long line of white vans and trucks on the dirt path leading to this part of the Henbane River, headlights on, casting a strange light on the shoreline and John. Next to each van there are bodies of three, hunched over, wrists zipped-tied together. They’re busy waiting, John and his men still setting up.  
  
Eden’s Gate members are popping the tops of green-colored drums and carrying the entire container into the water, forcing the drum to be submerged. Air and pressure briefly fights the process before it sinks in with a pop, its contents wafting and drifting underneath the water. Another is placed. Then another, throwing the world in a sickly, sweet aroma of vanilla and the water to brokenly gurgle at the site of each planted drum.

John casts an appraising look at the display, eyes beginning to search for a familiar face on the shoreline. Ah, he sees her, tucked in the middle of the third group. His lips curl and he walks into the water. He stands where the water meets the spot underneath his knees, his legs spread wide.

He makes a gesture with his hand and the procession begins. Shoes are removed. Jewelry and piercings off. Hair ties. Belts. Wallets. All tossed in a box. After, they are moved into the water, held in place by one of the church members. Three at a time. Always has to be three.

The youngest Seed reaches out with his hand and someone wades through the water to carefully pass him a leather-bound book, the cross and rays of Eden’s Gate emblazoned on the front cover. John opens the text, fingers thumbing through the pages with familiarity.

“Those who walk in heaven are those who have unburdened their heart of sin,” he begins, voice low and steady for only those in the water to hear, “those who are unburdened can enter into a new Eden. Nothing unclean, no one who practices abomination and lying, shall ever pass through, but only those whose names written in the Lamb’s book of life. For it is only the Lamb who is worthy of opening both the seals and Gates to Eden.” His voice begins to rise, beginning to grow in passioned cadence, turning his eyes to those by the vans.

“Those who turn their back on Eden’s Gate. Those who…destroy the good that it has built for its people,” John’s hardly looking at the text, jaw tight, “those without the foresight to _understand_ will be cast into the hell of their own making.”

John turns his back to the shore, returning to the three bodies shivering in the water. He approaches them one by one, repeating, “The Father brings us into deep waters not to drown us, but to cleanse us. Do you wish for salvation?”

Do you wish for salvation?

Do you wish for salvation?

Do you wish for salvation?

The answer is always _‘yes.’_ John takes a step back and the attending church member plunges the potentials into the Henbane River. They always emerge bewildered, eyes wide. John finishes with dragging his thumb across their forehead in the sign of the cross and rays, before waving them off.

Rinse and repeat with the next group, always throwing his voice to the crowd on the shore, eyes finding _her._

Do you wish for salvation?

_Yes._

Do you wish for salvation?

_Yes._  
  
Do you wish for salvation?

_Yes._

The second group leaves, the third group enters. She stumbles along the shore, head lolling forward, supported by two church members. John dares to walk closer to the shore, eyes intently watching the little to none resistance as her watch is removed, her pinned badge, boots… He gnashes his teeth at the sight, shooting a warning look at his people.

“We had to give her a big dose. She’s still in and out of it,” one of them weakly explains. 

“It’s fine,” he snaps, making an impatient motion towards the river, “she’ll wake up.” He moves deeper into the water, blinking rapidly, before taking a steady inhale of air. It leaves him slowly, rolling his shoulders, and pulling his back up straight. He turns back to the text in his hand. 

“Bless the name of those who have dealt you blows. Be grateful to those who have caused you harm. For it is these sufferings that have led you to me and oh…” John chuckles, finger tapping on the spine of the text, “has it led you to me.” 

The other two are forgotten, John directing his sermon towards the hardly lucid Deputy Lamb. Her hair is a tangled mess of brown, undone from its ponytail. Strong shoulders are bared in a dark tank top, but slumped forward. Her eyes are still closed. John gives a look at those supporting her and they respond by giving her a shake. Nothing. John inhales loudly, his free hand fidgeting at his side. 

He fights off whatever was restraining his hand, letting it curl tightly around Lamb’s chin. “ ** _Wa͈̲͖̙̱̠̖͜k̞̙͈̯e ̭̟͕up_** ,” he hisses. 

Deputy Lamb chokes, eyes flying open, sputtering out water that was never taken in. John smiles and releases his hold, “Make sure she’s _wide_ awake, will you?” Deputy Lamb is shoved into the river as John moves to quickly tend to the others.

Do you wish for salvation?

_Yes._

Do you wish for salvation?

_Yes._

“We must wash away our past,” John declares, voice loud, face split wide into a grin, “we must expose our sin. We must _atone_ , for only then may we stand in the light of God and walk through his gates onto Eden.” He makes his way back to the Deputy, the front of his jeans soaking wet from his less than graceful push back into the deeper end of the river.

John closes the text with a soft snap and hands it off on his trek back to Lamb, now, coughing and wide awake. Her eyes are having difficulty focusing on him, always looking over his left shoulder, pupils blown wide from the Bliss.

John lays his hands on either side of her temples, taking her in, “Going to quote my brother here. A little family warning.” His hands squeeze, fingers digging into her skull. “‘Those who put their hands upon our arks, those who mean to drown us in the flood, those who want to cast us aside after all our toil — they will find any hand they put upon us will be severed and taken from their arm,’” John heaves, but his voice is intimate and low.

“I should take your hand,” he comments before shoving the Deputy back into the water, the movement wrestling her out of the hands of Eden Gate’s faithful. John’s hands grope under the murkiness of the water, finding her throat. She’s kicking violently, water splashing up, but someone is moving to keep her legs put. The fighting is beginning to become more desperate — the inevitable peak of resistance. He waits a bit longer…just until those muscles spasm less…and less—

John jerks her back up, watching her gasp for air and, both, cough for water. It’s a painful display of throat and lungs fighting for life. Her eyes are wild, looking somewhere above his head. “You see it?” he inquires. No response. He tuts at the scene, shushing at her for compliance, before pushing her under the water, again.

_John._

John works his jaw, tongue pressing into the back of his teeth.

_John._

He relents, hands slackening, already pulling aware before he hears his brother’s voice be spoken out loud: “Do you mock the Cleansing, John?” The Deputy is pulled out of the water, but there is nothing. Even as he watches her cough and spew out water, nose red and running, the world is mute of her sound. Only Joseph Seed’s voice is audible and present, everything else at a hush.

John hangs his head, turning his head so he can see his brother from the corner of his eye.

“No, Joseph — ” he starts, somber and contrite.

“ _Shh.”_ A beat. “You have to love them, John. Do not let your sin prevent that.”

 

* * *

**  
Staci Pratt**

 

Staci Pratt sinks into his exhaustion the moment those words — _“You’re done, Peaches.”_ — are uttered. Eyes shudder to a close and his limbs go heavy, feeling himself fall, fall, fall back onto the dirt. He’s done. It’s done. He did it. Yet something keeps him from falling asleep. That something occupies space in his skull, persistent and unseen, keeping him from unconsciousness. It is the comforter too warm to be comfortable or a strand of hair tickling his nose. He cannot sleep.

_Not yet._

Hands hoist him from the cage, the scent of smoke and singed pine needles pushing up his nostrils, and he’s moving. There is a soft click and whine from a door’s hinges and the even fall of heavy steps on wooden steps, groaning under their collective weight as they rise up and up. Another hush of an opening door, but the wood isn’t bending to their steps in this room. Feet are scuffing and scattering something in its wake — dirt? Are they still inside? There is another step, but its wet, like something falling into water.

He’s lowered, gasping when his back meets water. There is that cloying vanilla scent that comes from the water. The same scent that engorges the lower level of the lodge with the rows and rows of dog kennels.

Clothes are becoming waterlogged, drawing him deeper, but hands keep him semi-afloat. He must be in a tub, big enough to accompany his stretched out body. He _has_ to be, but he can’t manage to open his eyes to confirm. They remain closed, exhausted.

Water shifts and is poured on his head, Pratt shuddering at the heated chill that chases after it. “I told you from the very beginning. Mer̻͎̱̼̀c͉̺̞y͎̮̻̬̣ does not exist here. To show mer̻͎̱̼̀c͉̺̞y͎̮̻̬̣ is a weak̀n̢e̴ss͝,” a voice explains, warped, yet familiar. There is that unmistakable, calming timbre of Jacob’s voice bleeding through.

A hand settles on the back of the head and urges him to sit up. Pratt sits, weightless in the water. Something cool is, suddenly, being rubbed into his scalp, blunt nails scratching and pushing it through his hair. A clean scent, eventually, hits his nostrils.

Pratt sighs, shoulders rolling forward. Water pours over him, again, and Pratt can feel himself slope further forward, head hanging.

“You can get used to ̙̙͍pain.̙͚͔̪̼͇̥ Yọ̡͙u can̘͇̠͓̻ ̙̭̺͓̻̻̪͞adjusţ̖̪ͅ ͓͓̭̩̱̕ͅt͙͚̪̬̹̫ͅo̧ ̪̹̱̤͟it.̯͔̖̫̖͢ͅ ͓̘Ẹ̠̰̦̖̤̘v̵̖̰̠̣e̵͉n ̨̘͎͚become ͎numb to it,” Jacob continues, voice stranger. Deeper. Words lingering in the air like an afterthought.

Pratt’s breathing turns slow as calloused fingers search in the water for his hands. A hand finds his, feeling a thumb run across the inside of his wrist before settling on his palm. They dig into his palm, pushing and massaging the tendons before moving to the next hand. Pratt’s fingers go slack, bobbing in the water when Jacob releases them.

“It’s tim͔̤͙̖̪͇̤e̷̳͔̠̩̪̦͍ that ̕ḩ͍͓urt̲̼͈̤ṣ͔̯̱. The slow realization that this ṇ͚͟i̞̖̟͈͍͞ght̴̫̤͚͙̼̗̖m̙̻̟̺͎a͓̗r̗̩͉e̹͙͓̝͙ͅ might last fore̵͉ver.”

A hand urges him back until he’s supine once more, cradling the back of his skull. The other hand settles on top of his chest. Jacob’s hands are the only reminder that what is speaking is still him.

“You were m̠̬̼̘̤̮e͉̙̱ant ̳̻to͓͎̹ ͈̱͍̗̖͚̻͡b͖r̶̫̰̱̖̠͓e̵a̱̻̼k̩̝̳̖, but you didn’t.” Pratt can feel pressure being applied, easing him further into the water, “Hold your breath."   
  
Pratt holds his breath and the hand on his chest pushes down.

His eyes, finally, open.

The water is riddled with strange, minuscule lights acting like floaters, moving wherever his eyes move. Barely, he can make out Jacob through the clutter and the unreliability of the shifting water. One moment it is Jacob, the lightness of his skin, the light blue in his eyes, and the red of his beard distinguishable. Then…it’s not. Something empty settles in its place that’s too big, body hulking, towering, but devoid of flesh. A grotesque specter occupies the space Jacob once stood and a strange burn is starting to pull at his own lungs. A gunmetal gray skull peers down, something akin to fire glowing in the broken places of its cheekbone — gone. It’s gone.

The hands pull him up from the water and Pratt inhales noisily, his eyes closed.

“ _That_ is the Cleansing,” Jacob explains, his voice normal, rumbling with quiet amusement, “told you, Peaches. Nothing is ever simple in Hope County.”

Finally, Pratt finds himself falling asleep in Jacob Seed’s hands.  
.  
.  
.  
.

Pratt wakes to something warm wrapped around his legs and torso. He lets his fingers and toes blindly explore what it may be before concluding it’s sheets. He keeps his eyes closed and pulls at them until they cover his chin, burrowing himself deeper. He’s home. He’s home and he can hear the faraway footsteps and movement of everyday life. His mom is downstairs, already rummaging and opening every cupboard and loudly placing the kettle on the stove. 

He lays there on the bed, taking in deep breaths in the darkness his closed eyelids provide, hoping for sleep.

It doesn’t work.

Opening his eyes, expecting to find his room, he finds…bunks. He finds himself alone in a room filled with bunk beds.

_Oh._

Pratt sighs, slowly sitting up. Jacob must have moved him here after the… He frowns, not sure what he remembers. There is a surreality he can’t quite accept, but he feels okay. Whole.

A cursory look tells him he’s clean. There is no dirt under his nails, his skin smells like soap, his hair is soft and lacking the layers of grease, and he’s been stripped of his clothing save for a pair of underwear. Underwear that is not his whatsoever. Pratt moves a hand to scratch at his jaw, still unshaven, hair coarse and patchy. _God, I need to shave_. He gives a fierce scratch at the underside, eyeing his surroundings critically.

Someone left him a water bottle and one of those packaged PB&J sandwiches they provide in middle schools. Pratt goes for the water first before tearing into the package, taking a greedy bite, groaning at the normality. He takes another bite before pushing himself onto his feet, quietly exploring the room with sandwich in hand.

Only one other bunk looks disturbed out of all the rest. The other bunks are tightly tucked in with a folded blanket and the cult’s gold-embellished text sitting on the foot of each bunk. Pratt spins around to find if there is anything on the foot of his bed. No text, but there are two sets of clothes: plainclothes and his deputy outfit.

Pratt picks up his jacket, holding it up to his nose. It’s been washed.

He wanders back, moving to the other bunk. The sheets smell like smoke and there is a duffle bag underneath the bunk’s frame. Pratt takes a considering bite of his sandwich and crouches down, dragging the duffle bag out. A quick look is given at the door, pausing to hear the sound of footsteps… Nothing. He’s good. 

With the sandwich pinned in his mouth, he unzips it. Clothes are neatly folded and filling the majority of the duffle bag. Pratt pushes through them, fingers groping for something different.

A book? He pulls it out, finding a worn copy of _The People of the Abyss_ by Jack London. Pratt flips to the back, but there isn’t a summary. The book is heavily dogeared and spine cracked with lines. There’s a small photo acting as a bookmark, the back of the picture yellowed and bearing water stains. Something is written across the surface, but it’s been smudged by time and wear. On the other side there is an image of a young boy with dark hair who is looking nervously at the camera. The space underneath his eyes are discolored from lack of sleep and he looks like he’s trying to smile.

Something sits uncomfortably in Pratt’s gut the more he looks at the photo. This looks more like a mugshot — something to put in a file. Pratt takes great care to slip both the picture and the book back.

His hand continues to grope about, finding the cool outline of a gun. He ignores it with a disheartened frown, pushing through socks and jeans. Fingers curl around a plastic bottle, pulling it out to find an orange, plastic prescription vial. It’s filled to the brim with pills, the prescription label worn and faded. He pops it open, finding pink, petite pills and… Pratt squints at the letters, spelling it out under his breath, “GSK…25?” It means nothing to Pratt, returning the vial.

There’s nothing else. Zipping the duffle bag up, Pratt pushes it back underneath the bunk.

He finishes the rest of the sandwich in two bites before wiping the crumbs off his hands, making his way to the connecting bathroom. Fumbling with the lights, he can feel his stomach take a discomforting swan dive. There is only a standing shower in the bathroom.

_No, no, no, no._

_There is another room. There is a room on the second floor with a tub. There…we went_ **_up_ ** _the stairs. We went up the stairs and I was put…in a tub._

_But there was dirt? On the floor?_

Pratt turns out of the bathroom, hastily grabbing at the spare jeans. They’re too long, but he doesn’t care. He zips it up, not bothering to button, before throwing on the shirt. Rushing out of the room, he gawks at the hallway. There are no rooms. Jogging clumsily down the open hallway, aware that there are eyes down below watching him, he stops at the lodge’s office.  
  
That’s it. That’s all there is. There are no other rooms on this floor.

A swear whooshes out of Pratt’s mouth as he drags a shaky hand through his hair. He does another sweep of the second floor before giving up.

 

**✠✠✠✠✠**

 

Pratt, finally, leaves the lodge once he’s better dressed and settled. He finds Jacob near the outskirts of the lodge, perched on a crate, a cup in one hand and what might be a stopwatch in another. Pratt approaches him awkwardly, unsure of how to interact after…whatever _that_ was, if it was even real or not. Jacob’s eyes rise up and finds him, making a gesture with his chin towards something on Pratt’s right. Pratt turns, finding a tray covered in foil. He peels it back to find food. He stares at it, dumbfounded.

“Is there a tub here?”

It’s not the question he wants to outright ask. He wants to ask if any of that was real. He wants to ask why he wasn’t supervised when he woke up or as he made his way here. Instead, the tub inquiry is all that is managing to blurt itself out of his mouth.

Jacob snorts at the question, squinting at something in the distance. He doesn’t grace the question with an answer until something is racing its way toward’s Jacob, feet lightly falling on the dirt floor. Jacob presses a button on the stopwatch, giving an appraising grunt.

Pratt can’t help but smile at the sight. It’s the same wolf he rescued, holding what looks like a toy, but there is an odd scent that comes from it. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s not quite right.

“I’ve heard stranger requests, if that’s what this is,” Jacob pockets the stopwatch, taking a sip of whatever is in his cup. Pratt shakes his head, dismissing his own inquiry as he sits next to the tray of food before moving it onto his lap. He finds a plastic fork tucked on the side and digs into what looks like scrambled eggs.

The silence should be comfortable, but Pratt can’t sit still. He squirms and shovels eggs into his mouth, squinting at Jacob to see something he can’t put his finger on.

“Are you training him?” Pratt breaks the silence, pointing to the wolf who is, now, gnawing on the toy.

“Testing. So far he’s passed,” Jacob concludes, adding with a raise of his brows, eyeing him, “he has you to thank.”

Pratt nods, smiling to himself. He keeps at his eggs before he’s pulling the foil further back, finding shredded hash browns. He hums in surprise at the sight. He shoves a forkful into his mouth, continuing on to stop the spread of silence. “I remember the five months. What, uh, Joseph said,” Pratt opens his mouth, shooting Jacob a quick look to see if maybe that is a conversation not meant to be explored.

Jacob gives a nod, looking at him expectantly.

“Go on, Peaches.”

Pratt swallows the hash browns, clearing his throat. “Oh, uh… Just that I remembered. It’s — I heard it before. It’s from Revelations,” he continues, waiting for…evasion? Refusal? Dismissal? He’s never actually asked Jacob any questions.

Jacob gives another nod, but there is something forbearing in his gaze.

“So is that what…you — Eden’s Gate — believe? The end is nigh?” Pratt realizes how lackadaisical and offensive that may sound as it leaves his mouth, opting for biting his own tongue.

Jacob doesn’t quite react, just takes a deep inhale, tongue clicking in his mouth. “Joseph is better at explaining this than me,” he admits, setting the cup in his hand down beside him. He taps a finger on his thigh, considering, before clasping his hands together on his lap.

“Revelations was written…far before the fall of the Roman Empire, but referenced to its inevitability of collapsing. As strong as it may look on paper, Rome was rotting from within from…overexpansion, further division between social classes, overspending on the military, overtaxing, corruption in political offices, and so forth, and so forth. And, to top it off, as one empire rises…” Jacob moves one hand up, “another wishes to rise in competition.” The other hand rises up to meet the other. “Rome was sick,” Jacob summarizes, “sound familiar?”

Jacob’s not finished, sitting up straighter.

“The Mughal Empire. The economy suffered with constant wars and the need to expand, bleeding the Empire dry, leaders placing taxes on certain groups. Nobles were corrupt, conspiring and warring for succession. Military deteriorated, weak and without discipline. Religious intolerance grew and grew and the leaders wondered why their empire was crumbling. Why were the majority up in arms? Sound familiar?

“Each empire begins with success and falls on its own sword because people are weak. Complacent. Would rather bend the knee than fight. We’ve always walked across the edge of a knife, but now we’re beyond teetering,” Jacob concludes, licking his lips.

He gives it a moment, adding on another beat, “I don’t know if Joseph talks to God and at this point, does it matter? The guardrails are gone and the wheels are spinning faster and faster, but we don’t want to accept that hard truth. Joseph asks for those to accept that hard truth and hopes that by doing so, he can save people from enduring that future.”

Pratt sits quietly, food forgotten. He doesn’t know what to say and his throat feels tight.

“I need to call my mom.”

Jacob blinks at the shift, head tilting to left.

“I need to call my mom,” Pratt reiterates, again, louder. His heart is starting to beat madly in his chest, moving his tray off of his lap. He’s on his feet and he doesn’t know why he’s panicking. He shouldn’t be panicking. Everything…is just fucking madness. Whitehorse told them this even before the U.S. Marshall came swinging by. It’s just madness. Nonsense. He doesn’t _need_ or _want_ to listen to this.

“I can’t do that, Peaches,” Jacob returns, voice calm. He still hasn’t moved from his perch.

“I know you have a phone! _Somewhere_!” Louder. Forceful.

Jacob pushes himself off the crate, the wolf at his feet rushing a few feet away, at attention. “Staci,” Jacob begins, again, voice taking on that low, calming croon, “it won’t happen. Why? Because I can’t stop you from saying something very stupid.”

“I won’t. I promise,” Pratt swears.

“I can’t take that risk,” Jacob returns, firmer.

His voice is starting to crack, his hands gesturing to the spot next to him, “You can be right there — the whole time. I’ll even write down what I’m going to say.”

Jacob, _finally_ , looks annoyed, leaving his shoulders tense and brows furrowed. He stands in place, staring Pratt down. Pratt meets that stare, looking frazzled.

“I’ll think about it,” comes the painfully slow response, looking and sounding reluctant to even voice it out loud. Pratt sighs in relief, body sagging, rushing out with ‘ _thank you'_ s that are instantly waved off. 

“ _Leave_ , Peaches. Before I change my mind — take the food with you,” Jacob adds when Pratt simply stands in place, his turn to look expectantly at Jacob. Pratt moves quickly into action, grabbing the tray, trying poorly to look humble in the wake of Jacob’s tired frown.


	8. If the Nightmare Lasts Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“See, I have placed before you an open door, which no one can shut. For you have only a little strength, yet you have kept My Word and have not denied My Name. Since you have kept my command to endure patiently, I will also keep you from the hour of trial that is going to come on the whole world to test the inhabitants of the earth. I am coming soon. Hold on to what you have, so that no one will take your crown…”_ **\- Revelation 3:8-11**
> 
>  
> 
>  **Trigger Warning Ahead:** _Child Abuse_

_Wake up._

Staci Pratt’s eyes open, jumping back, his shoulder knocking into something hard. He doesn’t need to look to know it’s the helicopter. A weighted sigh cuts through the silence, eyes skimming across the dark landscape. He moves to rap his knuckles against the helicopter, calling out, “Lamb?” 

The side door to the helicopter slides open, loudly clicking in place. The farce version of Deputy Lamb jumps out onto the dirt, features still gone, leaving a blanched, mannequin head as substitute.

Pratt makes a tired gesture to his far right, sardonically commenting, “Cue the music.” 

There is the noisy clanging of chords and their warped, drawn out sound. That’s different. Pratt squints, head tilted so he can better hear. This isn’t the same song. It’s not church hymns. Or some rendition of _Amazing Grace_. He turns to Deputy Lamb, as if looking for answers, but Lamb is already walking down the path. 

_Only youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu…_

_Come closer,_ streaks across the ground beneath him and, immediately, Pratt walks the path.

He doesn’t _want_ to move forward, but his legs are diligently pushing him forward. He tries to lock his knees, but something presses into the tender space behind his kneecaps and he’s moving.  “Shit,” he swears under his breath, trying to twist himself around, but he can’t. He’s moving forward, falling in step with Deputy Lamb. 

The music grows louder and louder, parts garbled hissing and vibrato. “ _Shit, shit, shit_ ,” he continues, voice falling into a panicked whisper. He can’t stop moving forward.

_Caaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnnnn mmmaaaakkkkkeee aaalllllllthiiiisssss…_

  
Like clockwork, once he crosses the threshold of Joseph’s compound, does the world begin to light up. The same grungy red lighting emerges behind windows and doors, casting a strange glow throughout. Pratt tries to throw his weight back, trying to dig his heels into the dirt, but his body refuses to comply.

_sssssssssssssss rriigggghhtt. Oooooooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnllllyyy yoouuuuuuuuuu…._

He’s moving deeper into the compound. He’s always retreated back or stayed off the path whenever he approached or came too close to the archway. He’s never gone this far. He can see the stocky, poorly made buildings that frame the pathway clearer. The same metal fence lines around them, save for entryway. Something is written above the doors, but he can’t see the first one. He’s moving too fast. 

_Caaaaaaannnn mmmaaake thhhhheee ddaaaaaaaarrrr…._

Pratt moves his hands and he inhales sharply when they move. _Yes,_ he can move his hands. He gropes at the fence to his left, gripping tight at the bars. His legs stutter in their stride, dragged back. _Come on._

**_LET GO._ **

Pratt closes his eyes to the angry text scorching across the nearest building. His legs move, continuing to move despite the smarting pinch beginning to build behind his knees. Pratt lets himself move a bit further down the fence, making sure to have some sort of grip on the iron bars. He’s rounding up on the next building.

_nnsssssssssss brriiiiiiiigghhhhht_

**_LET GO._ **

He can see the upcoming entryway, trying to careen his legs a bit closer towards the fence. _Something_ tugs sharply at his right leg and Pratt yelps. Heat flares around the joint of his knee, as if he twisted it the wrong way. He can feel it throb in beat with his heart, each swollen staccato leaving him gnawing on his tongue.

**_LET GO AND IT WILL STOP._ **

“Fuck you,” Pratt hisses.

There is a curious pause, watching Deputy Lamb come to an abrupt halt and the music is…muffled. An uncomfortable shudder dances on the nape of his neck, aware that same _something_ is watching him. Pratt’s eyes dart about him and he hobbles forward. He can move his legs. He can _move_ his legs. He can **_MOVE_** his legs. Pratt is moving faster, eyes focused on the opening in the fence. He’s swinging himself to the opening —

_**ONLY YOU AND YOU ALONE CAN THRILL ME** _

The music is deafening, but he’s in the opening now, making out the script above the door — _Avaritia_ — before it shifts — _Philadelphia_. Pratt’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t give it thought. He throws himself against the door, tumbling through.

 

**✠✠✠✠✠**

 

Humid heat buffets Pratt, feeling his collar and his scalp prickle with oncoming sweat. He moves a hand to cover his eyes, squinting at the harshness of sudden light. Slowly his eyes adjust, taking in the image of a dirt road and decrepit houses painted in alternating sepia and gray tones. The sky is painted in similar undertones, swollen clouds drifting slowly.

He’s outside? This is not Joseph’s compound. There is no music. No Deputy Lamb. No path.

Pratt gives himself a quick once over, making sure he’s whole, before cautiously moving forward. His knee still aches, but he walks through it. Shuffling his way to one of the houses, he glances about him, before popping open the metal mailbox. Mail must have not been checked in months— yellowing letters and advertisements stiffly fall out at his feet. Grabbing at one of them, he stares at the front.

Pratt shakes his head, shoving what he can back. He’s not in Montana. Not even close.

“Shit,” he huffs, not exactly pleased with that tidbit of information.

“— have an hour before he shits himself. We’re _fine_ ,” a voice interrupts, Pratt spinning on his heels towards the source. Three boys are rounding the corner of the road, all at odd heights. They all have uneven haircuts and are wearing clothes either too tight or too loose on their frame. The smallest of the group is a few steps ahead, looking like he must still be in kindergarten, dragging a stick across the chainlink fences or the wooden posts of the houses they pass. The other two follow closely behind.

“We just got to make sure we’re not late,” one of the boys remarks, voice carrying a somber thoughtfulness that rolls thickly off his tongue. Pratt identifies the voice coming from the boy who is about a good head shorter than the tallest. Brown hair is cut close to the scalp and his shoulders are curved forward just so. What must be the oldest of the group grunts and hooks his thumbs in the loops of his jeans.

Pratt stares, crossing the street towards them, but they don’t seem to notice that someone else is sharing the road with them. They walk resolutely forward, deaf or ignoring his noisy footsteps.

 _“Hey!”_ he calls out, testing. Nothing. Not even a flinch.

He follows them because there is nothing. There is nothing and no one, save for the three boys walking down a dirt road with looping fences and houses.

“I hear ice cream!” the little one abruptly stops, dropping the stick to point to something Pratt can’t see. It takes a delayed moment before an old jingle from an ice cream truck plays, followed by an archaic, blockish white van. The boy turns around to face the others and Pratt goes still. He’s seen that face before.

“Please?” he pleads and — _shit_ , he’s definitely seen that face before. The picture. It’s the same face on the picture in Jacob’s bag.

Pratt wheels himself closer to the group, turning so he’s facing them. It’s the Seeds. Younger. Softer. Joseph is the most recognizable out of the group with feverish and hollowed out eyes. The tallest must be Jacob, but his hair is a bit more on the russet side, short hair curled in the humidity, and his face is unmarred. There is only a hint of scattered scars, silver lines that cup his chin and left side of his jaw. He looks just as tired as his older counterpart, however, but makes up for it with a boisterous boldness that sits highly on his shoulders. Which makes the smallest of the group —

“John, not sure I have enough,” Jacob cuts through, but he’s already sticking his hand in his pocket. There’s no burn marks or grotesque lacerations on his arms or knuckles, just the random assortment of freckles. Jacob pulls out a handful of coins, offering what he can find without bothering to look at it. John is already racing towards the van.

Pratt drags a shaky hand through his hair, feeling like a nosy spectator watching the younger versions of Eden Gate’s leaders interact — _I shouldn’t be here._

The desolate landscape answers him in agreement.

The dirt road does an unpleasant shift to the left, Pratt nearly falling onto his side at the sudden motion. The houses give out garbled groans, rotting wood and cheap labor seeming to heave at a sudden pressure Pratt can’t identify. The earth gives another lurch before settling. Pratt has his hands sticking out to keep his balance, knees bent, wildly looking about.

The brothers don’t seem to notice, jogging after John with a reminder to stick close to them.

By the time Pratt reaches them, John is sitting on side of the road with his brothers, nearly licking the vanilla ice cream right off its cone. Jacob is quick enough to press the side of his finger against it and tilt it back up. There the group settles in comfortable silence, John’s sneakered feet tapping on the floor to a song no one can hear but him. He will, occasionally, offer the cone to the others, but both Joseph and Jacob decline with a smile.

“All done?” Joseph asks as John sucks on his sticky fingers, nodding. “We should get going.”

Pratt stands just far off not to intrude, even though the Seed siblings cannot see him. He shifts his weight from one side to the other, fingers picking at the top of his nails. Something feels too real and wrong about this.

He drifts after them as they leave their spots on the road. The beginning of a drawn out rainstorm sprinkles down on them and a tight smile is shared by the group. They walk faster.

Joseph is hissing something under his breath after a few minutes, face twisting into worry. Jacob turns his head to snap at him. They pick up into a jog soon after, Jacob scooping John into his arms. The rain is falling down harder and Pratt’s chest aches at the perfume of panic wafting off of the siblings. It’s subtle, but there, clinging onto the front of his shirt.

The jogging picks up to a run, making their way to the blackened house on the edge of the block. The wood looks wet and rotten, bloated from the downpour of rain. Dead weeds and unkept bushes clutter the porch and the broken pathway up to the front door. The Seed siblings quietly toe their shoes off, leaving it on the porch, and attempt to open the door slowly.

It groans noisily halfway, the three of them flinching.

Jacob is ushering them inside with a hand, Pratt squeezing himself after them before the door closes.

“You’re late,” a voice booms, the house’s foundations trembling.

The house is more squat in the inside and heavily cluttered. Towers of yellowing and mold-infested letters, phone books, and advertisements occupy most of the space in the house. Some even rise above the siblings’ heads. The ceiling is low, browned by old and new water stains. With the claustrophobic setting came the pungent odor of dust and wet wood. Pratt wraps his arms around himself, trying to occupy as little space as possible.

“Where were you?” the voice inquires, louder. Pratt can’t see the owner of the voice, the stacks of forgotten nonsense masking blocking his line of sight.

The siblings stand put in a triangle, Jacob at the tip, the others behind him. His jaw is set, chin tilted up, “Making our way here. We had to wait for the rain to let up because it was so bad.”

The offstage voice scoffs, a finger emerging into a view, pointing at the spot on the ground. “John, come here — ” the voice demands.

“I told you where — ” Jacob interrupts, taking a step forward.

“Be careful, _boy_. I wasn’t talkin’ to you.”

John shuffles forward, head hanging. He’s not quite where he’s supposed to be standing, just a few steps shy from Jacob’s front. A hand reaches out and grabs at John’s wrist, dragging him closer. Jacob is still, jaw tight.

“John, look at me,” the voice speaks firmly to the young boy, moving a hand to direct John’s face towards him, “you have a choice. You can lie, like your good for nothin’ brother is doing. Or, you can give me the truth.” A nervous nod is given, head tilted just a bit so he can look up at the voice.

Pratt’s stomach sinks, breath tight in his throat. He’s heard a similar version of those words, Pratt stewing in the unfolding horror. The house gives a pained groan, the walls scooting closer, forcing them closer together. The storm competes with the groan through the sudden rumble of thunder, rain beginning to pound on the roof.

No one seems to notice that one of the water marks on the ceiling is beginning to dribble out water.

Pratt is shaking his head, vision blurry.

“Now, where were you?”

Silence. John licks his lips, opening his mouth. Jacob is intervening, but he hasn’t moved. He just raises his voice, “Getting out of the rain and waiting for it to settle — ”

“I’m not talking to you, ” the voice grits out, voice low and guttural. His hand must have started to squeeze because John is whimpering, body sloping downward in an attempt to relieve pressure. “ _Why is your hand sticky?!_ ” comes the sudden, dangerous inquiry, John’s hand being held up for inspection.

“He — ”

It comes fast, a blur of darkness pushing forward and the piercing sound of skin striking skin. Jacob is cupping his cheek, scowling. Joseph remains immobile, a faraway look sitting behind his eyes. John is starting to cry. The voice is no longer behind the shadow of newspapers and advertisements. It stands in the open, bearing no distinct shape, more a dark conglomerate of shifting smoke and specific features: veined hands, sharp nose, booted feet, and a belt.

 ** _“Stop!”_** Staci shouts out, taking a step forward, hands balled into tight fists, **“ _Enough!”_**  
  
No one can hear him.

“I didn’t ask for you, _boy_. Go into your room, _now_. I’ll decide how to deal with liars,” the voice snaps, having yet to let go of John. “ _Move_.”

Jacob has to pry Joseph from his catatonic state, pushing down a hallway that Pratt has to fight to be in. The ground is thick with torn letters, paper, and scraps, creating small valleys. He squeezes himself somewhere behind Jacob and in front of the featureless figure. Jacob keeps on looking over his shoulder — apprehensive and worried. The tense journey comes to an end when they arrive in a small, bare room. Jacob has turned around, now, waiting, glancing between John and the figure.

“I decided.”

The house is heaving, a strange structure beginning to expand and contract rapidly. Jacob’s face falls and the door between Jacob and John slams shut.  Jacob's sprinting past him — through him — grabbing at the door knob, twisting it. The door doesn’t open. The house gives a nervous inhale, walls bending inward, and Pratt feels sick, the air beginning to become humid and thick with sweat and blood. It causes Pratt’s stomach to do a warning flip, fighting off the urge to sit. To put his head in his hands and breathe. 

Jacob is snarling and grappling with the door, unaware of the strangeness possessing the house.

The door, still, won’t budge.

The eldest dissolves into a hyperventilating, spitting mess of thrashing fists and limbs against the door’s surface, forcing it to open. He’s swearing to the door, chanting out dark promises through unsteady breaths.

Nothing. If anything, the door is getting thicker.

Pratt turns toward the door, lending his hands. The door is locked, but he can actually jiggle and twist the door knob. Jacob cuts through his figure, opting for throwing his full weight at the door, shaking the frame. Nothing. Not even a budge.

Jacob tries again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Pratt moves his hands away from the knob.  
  
“The door never opens, does it?” Pratt concludes distantly, stumbling back to watch Jacob still trying. He turns his back to the sight, overwhelmed and struggling to breathe through his mouth. His eyes finds the bedroom’s window, watching the aggressive rainstorm beat and shake the windows.

“Jacob,” Pratt exclaims, turning to the youth. He’s still throwing his shoulder at the door. Pratt tries to touch him, but his fingers fall through.

He doesn’t bother to try again, making his way to the window. His fingers fumble with the latch on the middle and urges the window to slide up. There is a slight resistance before it shoots upward, rain flinging itself into the new opening.

Pratt ignores it and the cloying nausea still clawing at his gut. He pushes himself out through the window, falling into the backyard. Racing to the nearest window, he digs his fingernails into the wood and pushes up.  
  
_Let go and it will stop._  
  
Pratt pushes harder, pinning his tongue between his teeth. Splintered wood is beginning to dig into the flesh of his fingers, but he keeps it up.  
  
Finally, the window gives. He crawls his way back into the house, scrambling onto his feet.

The room he’s in is blank. Only four walls with the imprints of items that should be sitting inside, but are not present. He moves quickly through the room, opening the door, finding himself back in the hallway.

The door at the end of the hallway is rattling, Jacob’s body still thudding against it. Any sign of John is gone. He can’t hear anything besides Jacob.

He rushes to the door, grabbing at the doorknob. It gives when he twists it, door, suddenly, unlocked and swinging open. Jacob Seed is on the other side, staring at the door, bewildered. Brows pinched, he takes a cautious step forward, eyes searching in the gloom and past Pratt… Until they don’t. Until Jacob’s eyes rise up, finding him -͉͎̪ͅ-͉͎̪ͅ-͉͎̪ͅ-͉͎̪ͅ-͉͎̪ͅ

Pratt inhales sharply, body abruptly jerking in response to the sensation of falling. He opens his eyes, finding the dark outline of bunk beds. There are sheets curled around his ankles and thighs, the scent of firewood smoke diffusing the aftertaste of…a nightmare. Shakily taking a breath, fingers carefully touching what feels like a mattress underneath him, he schools his panicked heart. He moves a hand to wipe at his face, finding it wet.

A ragged draw of air cuts through the air a few moments after him, the sound coming from somewhere to his far right. A bed gives a groan as its occupant moves too fast.

Pratt forces himself to breathe in steady inhales and exhales, closing his eyes.

There is the soft sound of movement, the bed giving another groan. Footsteps cross the room, but they never make it towards his bunk. Only the sound of a hand turning a knob and a door swinging open in a drawn out hush signifies Jacob’s leave.

Pratt only moves when the door clicks shut, sitting up, staring at Jacob’s empty bed with wide eyes.

 

**✠✠✠✠✠**

 

Jacob’s bed is made by the time Pratt wakes up. A tray of food sits in the bunk next to him, covered in foil. He stares at the food, his chest feeling constricted with each breath. A hand rubs at the center of his torso before getting up and dressed for the day. He leaves half an hour with an empty tray, his steps careful, head on a swivel as he stares across the cultists beginning their day.

Jacob is nowhere to be found, but the ghost of the nightmare sits heavy in his thoughts. Pratt sighs, standing uselessly in the lodge’s lobby before heading outside.

“So you made it to the other side.”

Staci Pratt finds his way walking back to the sectioned off area of kennels and cages, tearing at his nails with his fingers. He gives a nod and a half-hearted smile at Deborah. A noncommittal grunt is the response. His eyes follow the measured movements of Deborah completing this morning’s chores and the long stretch of silence that follows after her, his smile beginning to wilt.

“I’m sorry,” Pratt blurts, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, pawing his hands into jeans that aren’t his. The apology stops Deborah in her tracks, shooting him a queer look.“I didn’t mean to…get nosy,” he elaborates, but his voice sounds faraway and occupied.   
  
_Where is Jacob?_

Her mouth rounds into a voiceless ‘ _oh_ ’ and is followed by a snort, brows pinched. Her arms fold across her chest, giving Staci a cursory look, “You know that type of behavior gonna get ya killed, right?” Staci stiffens; it’s his turn to wear confusion. She only responds with a knowing look, turning to toe at the sealed, blanched white buckets on the floor. “No need to apologize for shit that doesn’t matter. You can help with breakfast, though, if you’re really chompin’ at the bit.”

Pratt spends the next fifteen minutes slopping out the pungent mixture of meat and what might be shredded vegetables. He keeps himself near Deborah, throwing her sporadic glances every so often. Deborah doesn’t meet his gaze, but judging by the grim pull on her lips, she more than sees it.

“I got a question to ask,” Pratt confesses, earning a sarcastic ‘ _hallelujah_ ’ from the Judges’ caretaker. “Do…do strange things happen here?”

That earns her attention, pausing to cast him a queer look. “Well this sure ain’t normal, if that’s what you want to hear,” she retorts, but doesn’t return to her work quite yet.

Pratt glances about him, adding, “I mean…strange things. Strange dreams.”

She gives a shake of her head, “‘fraid not. Occasionally I’ll hear strange stories from the locals. Nonsense, really. Sasquatch sightings and that kind of bullshit.” Deborah stares at him for a moment, relenting with a sigh, “Only one who gets anything out of the ordinary is the Father and maybe them Whitetails who go through the Trials. I’d say ask the Father or Jacob, but I’m worried you might demand for an answer with a tantrum, again.”

Pratt can feel his cheeks burn, but he doesn’t argue back.

“Yeah. I think half of the lodge heard about that phone call you want,” she tuts, but her lips are cracked into a semblance of a smirk. Pratt can’t do anything to stop the flare of pink and red spreading to his throat. “Not exactly one of your most glowing of moments, I’m sure."

She holds up a finger in warning, a somber expression coloring her face. “Like I said, though. That type of behavior gonna get you killed. You think being in this cage was hard? Or the one back at the hospital? Think again. You’ve been riding on a streak of strange luck and it’s not gonna last forever. I was damn surprised Jacob didn’t bust your damn kneecaps when you stopped this.” She gestures to the, now, empty cage where the rescued Judge once resided in.

He knows. Begging for a phone call was stupid, but… Last night. Pratt worries his bottom lip, staring at the empty cage.

“Where is the Judge?” he asks.

“Jacob took him out two hours ago. Hunting, I believe.”

Pratt gives a nod, but his hands go back to picking at his nails. Deborah is still staring at him, waiting with an exasperated twitch of the lips. “You think someone can find him? Radio him in? Or…someone take me to him?” he pitches, voice rising at the end with hope.

“What the hell did I just say about demanding things?” she scowls, but she’s already moving a hand to her belt for her radio, “goes in one ear, out the other.”  
  
Pratt gives a combination of a nod and a shrug. That does nothing to soothe Deborah, still standing with a scowl. She gives him a hard look before holding the radio to her mouth, calling out for Jacob.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **“Hello, Welcome Home” has a playlist!** Check out the link down below to access it and additional character playlists! 
> 
> **Link:** http://carvedwhalebones.tumblr.com/post/176206808943/hello-welcome-home-far-cry-5-there-is-something


	9. Bold and Brave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Those I love, I rebuke and discipline. Therefore be earnest and repent.”_ **\- Revelation 3:19**

_“Wake up, Pratt.”_

Staci Pratt wakes up slowly, waiting for the familiar impact of him hitting the helicopter. It doesn’t come. Something shakes him, again, and he’s opening his eyes —

“Jacob?” he mumbles, sluggishness quickly changing into attention. Jacob looks haggard, the skin around his eyes darker, giving the appearance his eyes are further sunken into his skull. In the light of the room, the only color in his skin are uncared, red flare of old burns, the rest drained. Jacob looked like shit. Like he hasn’t been sleeping for days and it’s finally caught up to him, his exhaustion bone deep.

It’s the missing military jacket, however, that has Pratt sobering up from his grogginess. It’s gone. He can _feel_ the stupid look crawling on his face as he gawks at the man: shock, put off, and nervous. Unseen parts of Jacob, the skin above his elbows, the sides of his neck, and part of his collarbone, are flagrantly bare.

Jacob Seed looks…smaller. More human without the implied authority and stiffness of the jacket.

“Follow me.”

Jacob turns and exits the room, leaving Pratt to pick the sleep out of his eyes. Hastily throwing on his jeans, a borrowed jacket, and boots, he’s rushing out of the room.

Jacob has been gone the whole day. He was answering the radio, from what Deborah shared, but where he was at or when he would return remained a mystery. To turn up in the middle of the night, though? Looking like this? Fear sits at the ready in the back of his skull, feeling his stomach tense.

He finds a lone, staple white truck of Eden’s Gate is sitting at the entrance of the lodge, engine running. A massive shape is standing up from the truck bed. Pratt moves slowly until there is a high-pitched whine, needy and attention-seeking. He can’t stop the smile pulling at his face, moving towards the back of the truck to offer a hand to the dark outline of the rescued Judge. Something wet sniffs at his hand before licking at it.

“Good to see you, too,” he murmurs, earning another whine.

Turning to the passenger’s seat, Pratt climbs in. The interior lights turn on at the opened door and for a moment, he sees Jacob in better lighting. His posture is poor, back rounded. There is something disheveled about his overall appearance. As quickly as he is illuminated, as quickly as the image disappears once the door shuts.

The drive out is nearly silent. The radio is turned down low, the murmur of static and pieces of broken news — _“two people…killed when a bomb exploded under a car in Alexandria…”_ — bleeding through the further they travel into the mountains.

Under the greenish glow of the dashboard, Pratt finds Jacob white knuckling the steering wheel.

Pratt is alternating between shifting in his seat, toying with the strap of his seatbelt, and picking at a beard that desperately needs shaving. His eyes keep on finding Jacob, staring at his profile, trying to find proof in his jaw. There is so much of Jacob that has been eaten away, leaving leftovers of scars, discoloration, and the aftermath of burns.

Whatever truth was in the young Jacob in his dream…nightmare, Pratt isn’t sure he can find it.

_God, was any of it real?_

_Was that actually him? And how? Or was it nothing but a nightmare?_

Pratt licks his lips, hands worrying themselves in his lap.

Just ask.

How _does_ he even ask? Blurt out that he had a dream of Jacob? That he saw Jacob trying to protect his siblings?

Just ask.

Just ask —

“Where are we going?” comes tumbling out instead, voice sounding too loud to his own ears. He grimaces.

Jacob inhales deeply through his nostrils, eyes fixed on the road, exhaling, “Old training grounds. I want to show you something.”

His stomach drops, the memory of last time’s _showing_ involving an unsettling lesson. Fear slowly trickles down his spine, staring at the anonymity and nothingness of Hope County in the middle of the night. His fingers instinctually start to pick at their nail beds, features grim. His fingers continue worry at each other until they pull off the main road and onto a dirt road. They keep driving until they pull into a small clearing, the truck coming to a stop.

He keeps the headlights on.

Jacob reaches for something behind his seat, pulling out a worn, military backpack. He slides out of the truck with it, Pratt, slowly, following.

“A few years back we trained wolves and dogs the moment they were born,” he starts, making a motion with his hand that has the wolf leaping out from the truck, trotting towards him. “You can start to see early on those who aren’t afraid and those who are, making it easier to separate the wheat from the chaff.”

Pratt moves closer, staring at his surroundings. There is nothing symbolizing civilization around this clearing. Nothing but the tall stand of pines and brush.

 _Shit._ There might not be anyone nearby…

The Judge is sliding its way towards him, nudging him in the back of his knees, urging him further into the light. Pratt reluctantly takes a few steps forward. A cold nose pushes into the underside of his hand, huffing until his fingers start to rub at its snout. Jacob doesn’t look too impressed with the gesture, but says nothing.

“You no longer work with them when they’re young?” Pratt’s voice cracks.  
  
“No,” Jacob shakes his head, crouching down with his pack, rummaging through it, “Whitetail Militia wiped them out. Put out bounties and by the end of the year, they were gone.” Pratt hears the resentment in the man’s voice, words pulled from clenched teeth. “Now it takes too much time to rear them when they’re young, so we use Bliss to speed up the process,” he stands up, holding out what looks like a leash.

He whistles between his teeth and the Judge is leaving Pratt, rushing off to Jacob. He leans down to snap the leash in place. It wordlessly sits down, but its eyes are on Pratt, tail wagging across the dirt.

“In the military, snipers operate in a team of two. The concept seems simple, but it’s not. It’s complex and, at times, hard to establish a relationship,” he starts matter-of-factly, eyes looking somewhere past Pratt’s head.

“You rely on the other for support, knowledge, experience. Each sniper should make up for the other’s weaknesses and add to the other’s strength. Same concept goes right here with our Judges. Pairing up a Chosen with a Judge is deliberate. The two must be compatible because, at the end of the day, the strength of the relationship is the difference between a bullet in the skull and staying alive.”

Jacob leans down to pat the back of the Judge, concluding with a upturn curve of his mouth, “This one has an obvious interest in you. That’s why I think you will be a good fit.”

_Wait. What?_

A queer look draws on Pratt’s features, gradually digesting Jacob’s words. He’s not here because he’s being punished or to be taught some harrowing lesson. Jacob is still talking, mentioning something about training, but… _A good fit?_ He’s not one of the Chosen. He’s not even one of Jacob’s loyal soldiers, let alone a follower of Eden’s Gate. He’s a prisoner.

_So what is this? Why is he here?_

“Pratt, _focus_ ,” Jacob interrupts, “I want you to walk with me. Come here.”

Pratt shuffles towards Jacob, watching him leave both the Judge and the leash. He warily watches, moving to the spot Jacob is pointing to beside him, “Stand just close enough where you can feel me, but half a step back.” A hand adjusts Pratt so they’re just an inch apart, “Good, now, walk _with_ me.”

Pratt jogs a few steps after him when Jacob begins, trying to match his stride in their superficially illuminated world. He can feel his heart racing, noisy beating in his ears. _What is this?_

“Feel me when I turn and watch me. When I turn, you turn with me. When I stop, you stop with me,” he instructs. He’s turning right and Pratt’s feet stumble, the two bumping into the other. He goes to open his mouth, to apologize, but a hand is centering him back on point.

“You need to _see_ and _move_ with me,” he reminds, continuing to walk ahead.

Pratt tries. He’s watching Jacob, head cocked just a bit to the left so he has some clue on where he’s walking. He watches the subtle shift of the muscles in his shoulders through the shirt with each sway of Jacob’s arms. There must have been an old injury or a shoulder popped in wrong, because the left is slightly higher than the right — Pratt’s nose ends up colliding with Jacob’s back.  
  
“Try again.”

Shit. Okay. Focus.

He stares a bit more intently, eyes drifting lower. Jacob’s hips give a slight turn to the right and he’s moving, Pratt matching Jacob in stride.

“Good.”

Another successful turn and Pratt is grinning, relaxing.

“Well done. Now, with the Judge,” they come to a slow halt, beckoning for the Judge to come. Immediately the wolf is at attention, moving forward with a leash dragging behind. “Pick up the leash and tell him to heel. Then, walk.”

“ _Oh,”_ suddenly understanding, picking up the leash, “heel.” The command is firm, the Judge, immediately, moving next to his leg. Its head is turned upright towards him, waiting. Together, they walk.

Jacob grunts in approval, moving to stand off to the side.

“See how he’s following? How he’s watching you?” he’s coaching from the side, “watch your shoulders — _good_. Keep them up, back straight.” Pratt is walking an imaginary square, eyes daring to dart towards Jacob.

The realization comes slowly, feeling the Judge brush against his leg, following his direction. The Judge may, actually, befor him. A gift?

_A thank you?_

Pratt can feel the telltale beginnings of adrenaline, sweat starting to break on his forehead.

“ _Focus_ , Pratt,” Jacob warns, “he needs to be an extension of yourself, but he can only function with your attention. The moment your body language relaxes, his attention is gone.”

Jacob puts him through a few more exercises before waving them to stop. A curt nod is given in approval, moving closer towards the two with the backpack.

“One last thing,” Jacob starts, shoulders no longer sagging, posture upright, “I need you and the Judge to retrieve something I’ve lost.”

Pratt sucks in the air noisily, lips thinning. 

“Your jacket?” he guesses.  
  
A sardonic smile tugs on his lips, nodding, “How astute. Yes, think of it as a test. See if you two can actually work together.”

“Wait — _now_?” Pratt questions, brows suddenly pinching. It’s dark. It’s nighttime.

“Yes. Now,” Jacob gesturing to the backpack, “there is a flashlight. There is a shirt of mine in the bag. Give the Judge the scent and follow its lead.”

Pratt closes his eyes, hand tightening on the leash. A thousand questions sit behind his tongue, settling with the most obvious: “If I run away?”

Jacob moves a step forward, peering down at Pratt. Pratt can feel his shoulders beginning to round forward, head dropping just a bit. There is a drag of silence before Jacob cuts through it, voice low and even, “You would have a good head start before I started looking for you.” Jacob points to the backpack, but his eyes don’t leave Pratt’s, “Come find me when you’re done.”

Pratt releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding when Jacob leaves, gulping for air.

 

**✠✠✠✠✠**

 

Walking through the Whitetail Mountains in the middle of the night is reckless and stupid. Even with the flashlight he finds himself missing steps, expecting floor, and foot sinking into dips and nothingness. There isn’t much in the pack to help him. A few granolas, one water bottle, Jacob’s shirt, and a jacket. Purposely, there is nothing in the bag that would get him far on his own.

Pratt accepted the jacket, however, throwing it over his own.

A disgruntled noise leaves the Judge when Pratt gives a tug on the leash when he misses a step. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he heaves. He could take him off the leash, but Pratt is terrified the Judge may wander off and he won’t find him in the dark. It’s already been…half hour, maybe, and he’s nearly twisted his ankle twice and there is something unsettling about the silence in this area. He hasn’t heard anything, besides them, moving.

“Fuck Jacob,” Pratt grumbles sourly, beginning to move, again.

It happens again. A missed step, leash is tugged. And again. A missed step, leash is tugged. And again.

Stop. Go. Stop. Go.

Pratt’s feet keep on missing and tripping over arched roots and rocks, stumbling forward. Wherever he stumbles, the Judge is pulled with him. The Judge tugs on its leash, pulling at Pratt. “Okay, okay,” he complains, following. “I’ll…” Pratt starts before he’s closing his eyes, pinching at the bridge of his nose, “follow you.”

He lines himself up against the Judge, standing slightly behind, as instructed, and follows. Pratt doesn’t find himself stumbling over his own feet, letting the flashlight dance just ahead of them.

He doesn’t get it.

Why would Jacob give - _well, no, it wasn’t explicitly given as mine, but wasn’t it?_ \- him a Judge?  There has to be a catch. A limit. That oncoming, sickening drop once this rollercoaster is at its peak.

Pratt gnaws on his bottom lip, feeling himself being nudged left. There is a nagging, quiet voice telling him that he already knows why, but…

He shakes his head head, releasing his, now, swollen bottom lip.

The Judge starts to slow down, nose dropped low to the ground.

It starts to paw at the base of a pine before sitting on its haunches, turning its head expectantly at Pratt. He’s quick to coo at the wolf, bending down to scratch behind its ears. There is a hollow in the tree, filled with pine needles and something else. Sticking his hand inside, he feels the tough fabric of what must be Jacob’s jacket. Carefully hauling it out, it drags his wrist down — something is inside the jacket?

Pratt squints at it, pinning the flashlight between his armpit and arm, patting the jacket down with his free hand. There is something heavy clipped inside. Opening the jacket up… _Oh._ Pratt’s brows relax, mouth parting in pleasant surprise.

 _This_ was the test. Or maybe _this_ was the gift.

It’s a satellite phone. Jacob remembered. There is a note taped to the back —

**_“Don’t do anything stupid.”_ **

Pratt thumbs one of the buttons, watching the phone light up. It barely has any juice left, signaling that the battery is low. Maybe he could squeeze out a solid five minutes. Maybe. Probably less. He needs to hurry.

 _Shit. Shit shit._

He stares at the phone, thumb hovering over the keypad. It lingers there. He starts to press at the numbers before he’s putting the phone against his ear, listening to it ring. Someone picks up, listening to the soft intake of breath from the other side as someone places the phone to their mouth. Pratt’s eyes already sting, watching his view of thick woods swim in blurred colors.

_“Hello?”_

“Hi, mom.”


	10. A New One Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"And I beheld, and, see, in the middle of the throne and of the four beasts, and in the middle of the elders, stood a Lamb as it had been slain, having seven horns and seven eyes, which are the seven Spirits of God sent forth into all the earth.”_ \- **Revelations 5:6**

**March 2018 ►►►  
** **Jacob Seed**

 

By the time someone sets foot on the front lawn of the Grandview Hotel, you’ve earned it. You are of some worth to Eden’s Gate.

The processing is the least rigorous. Name. Birthday. Brief physical. The Chair. Some require the openness the Bliss provides. Others do not. 

Most of them, if not all, are former athletes, military, hunters, law enforcement, etc. They were all identified as having the potential to thrive within the Project. And yet, out of the twenty bodies that will, weekly, enter the hotel, less than half will make it past his Initiation. Days without food. Limited water. The sickening discomfort of what sweaty clothes do to the skin. Most break after day three. Even less will make it to their final Sacrifice — to their _graduation —_ due to the Trials.

It is the most physically and emotionally demanding part of a prospect’s time at the Project, designed to help one transition from weak to strong. Who he is training are not people. They are tempered, hardened tools to support the Project and nothing more. 

Jacob Seed’s training is purposeful. He challenges mentally, physically, militarily, and socially. The system is deliberately built to find one’s weakness. He finds it and removes it. He tests, again. Is the weakness still there? Again. Is it still there? Again. Again. Again. Until it is unlearned. 

Then, there is Staci Pratt. Who had all the stuffings and makings of the average disappointment.

Fearful. Willing to leave his colleagues in stressful situations. Average reviews from superiors on the most recent observation. Average test scores in the Academy. Average grades in college. Average. Staci Pratt was Hope County’s Sheriff Department’s Participation Award and Jacob did not want him. He would have preferred the Marshall or the other Deputy, but, instead, he got Pratt.

Yet, when Pratt willingly entered that cage, he broke the mould. Something changed.

Jacob scratches at his chin, keeping a careful eye on the clock on the dashboard. _2:28_ glows in the darkness of the truck. It has been three hours since Pratt left. His eyes slide to the side mirror. The dark outline and smudges of the thicket remains unmoved. Moving his head, resting it against the headrest, he crosses his arms over his chest and closes his eyes. 

It was — _is_ — a gamble. 

There are a variety of paths Pratt can choose to explore: (1) He could run; (2) Call the Sheriff’s Department to alert colleagues; (3) Call a familiar person (i.e. his mother) and encourage them to get help; or (4) he could just call his mother and say nothing. 

Most of the options have endings he can control. Running is futile. Calls to the Sheriff’s Department are moot, but he would be informed of the call. Pratt informing a familiar person plays a dangerous game. The Sheriff’s Department would be contacted, first, by outside agencies and, if not convinced, forcibly move in. 

Jacob opens an eye, looking at the dashboard. 

_3:14_

Sighing, he sits up, popping his back. Opening the door, the truck dinging, he opens the back. Pulling a black case from the floor, he sets it down on the ground besides the truck, popping it open to reveal a dissembled rifle. Its red finish is muted and strange under the superficial lighting of the truck’s interior spilling out. He makes quick work of the rifle, the bolt a rancorous _clunk_ with each slight pull. 

The bolt bites at the flesh of his finger when snapping the top in place. 

Jacob pauses, staring at the spot, before moving pins in their rightful place. Shutting the case and tucking it away in the truck, he hoists his rifle, letting it lean upright into his shoulder and chest. 

_3:18_

Pulling the key out of the ignition, he gives the truck’s doors a final close — 

“Jacob?”

It’s dark without the lighting from the truck. Something is ambling its way into the clearing, steps tired. Something else is jogging his way, steps quicker, before it is pushing into his knee, pawing at his boot. The universal sign of “ _I found it_ ” when seeking. He can feel his lips twitch into an unseen smile before it leaves

Jacob reaches over and pulls at the truck’s door, superficial lighting returning. Staci Pratt is entering his line of sight, holding both his jacket and the phone. The legs of his pants are riddled with smears of dirt and forest debris. Sweat is sitting heavy on his brow, collecting. Pratt gives an exhausted exhale as he gravitates to the truck. 

Sagged shoulders, immediately, rise when eyes find the rifle.

“Is that for me?” Pratt whooshes out, pausing. 

“You took your _sweet_ time out there.”

“I’m not exactly graceful in the dark,” Pratt huffs derisively. Jacob holds his gaze until the deputy starts to twitch. He lays the rifle over the backseat, motioning at the truck with his head. 

“Get in.” 

“Wait, hold up,” Pratt is moving closer, offering the jacket and the phone. Jacob takes it, but Pratt isn’t letting go of the phone. It stays there — suspended — both of their hands wrapped around it. “Thank you.” Pratt’s voice is quiet, lips tugging into a small smile, adding, “For keeping your promise.” 

The phone is released and Pratt is walking around the truck, making his way into the passenger seat. Jacob taps his finger on the phone’s surface, quiet. He’s soon pulling himself into his jacket, idly noticing that it smells only of Pratt. 

 

✠✠✠✠✠

The alarm never went off because Jacob forgot to set it. He slept soundly and motionlessly, his body like cast iron. When he finally opens his eyes, it’s to sunlight digging into his right eye and a hand pushing at his shoulder. Groggily lifting himself up, yawning, he finds Pratt looking anxious from above. 

“Jacob, uh, your brother is here. Joseph.”

His body quickly jerks to an upright position, turning to the window, before pulling the clock up. It’s nine o’clock —

“Jacob. _Jacob_ — it’s okay. He just got here. He said he’s in no hurry,” Pratt is interrupting, but the pinched expression gives away the deputy’s discomfort. He’s fully dressed, thumb stuck in-between the pages of what looks like Joseph’s religious tome. Jacob’s lips turn into a thin line, back stiffening. 

“And everything has been taken care of. Morning shipment — ” Pratt places the text down, moving over to his bed to grab his pad. He’s rushing over to show it to him, pointing to the top. “It came in. Seventeen drums. Then, I did the daily rounds around the perimeter with — shit, hold on, I can’t read it… Alex. I did it with Alex…” 

Jacob isn’t looking at the pad. He’s looking at Pratt, watching his mouth move, shoulders rising and falling with each animated point to some location on the pad. 

Pratt’s still talking. Something about maintenance and showers. Joseph’s gold embellished text is a sore in the background, splayed out on Pratt’s bed.

It was never planned for Joseph to leave the safety of his compound and travel here. Never discussed. The only reason he would make an impromptu visit, would be if something suddenly went amiss…

Jacob closes his eyes, moving a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

_Pratt chose to do something stupid._

“Who gave you permission to do this, Peaches?” he cuts through, chewing out his words, enunciation crisp and deliberate. 

Pratt stills, before he’s recoiling. His hands are moving to the front of his person, holding his pad, chin tucking into chest. 

“No one, sir,” is robotically returned. Eyes aren’t quite meeting his, fixated somewhere to Jacob’s left. 

“So you gave yourself permission,” Jacob reiterates, settling on cautious, brows pinched. So then what does Pratt gain from letting him sleep in a few hours or completing his morning _To Do_ _list?_ An attempt to buy time?

Pratt only hunches further into himself, jaw tight.

Eventually his eyes are closing, lips twisting together, turning the surrounding skin white. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, mumbling, “First time you actually were _sleeping_ well. Thought I’d let you be.” It nearly sounds surly, but Pratt’s contrite’s posture dampens the effect.

_Oh._

A jaw is being worked, the silence sitting between them strange. Something in Jacob’s back gives, one of his shoulders slanting downward. 

“Next time you decide to play _Follow the Leader_ , invite me,” Jacob settles on, the tightness in his voice forgotten, “might as well show off in person."

Pratt looks dumbfounded, as if trying to figure out if that was a threat or a strange compliment. 

“Stay put. We’ll head out together.”

Jacob picks at the sleep in the corner of his eyes before pulling himself onto his feet. He’s going to need a shower before meeting Joseph. 

.  
.  
.  
.

Joseph is found outside, dressed carefully in a dark vest and starch white dress shirt. Yellowed aviators are perched on his nose, his head turned downward, glasses sliding down before halting midway. He has a hand laid out on the skull of a Judge, talking in hushed tones to it.

The Judge turns its head in Joseph’s hand as both Jacob and Pratt approach, tail beginning to thump against the ground.

Jacob can feel Pratt stiffen next to him, a hand bumping into his wrist. That is _his_ Judge.

Joseph pulls his head up, face breaking out into a smile. “You look well-rested,” he compliments, rising to his feet, holding out his arms. Jacob gives a nod in affirmation, meeting Joseph for a tight, but brief embrace. “I know this is unplanned,” Joseph sympathetically starts, keeping him put, hands settling on the underside of his elbows, “but I had a troubling…revelation. I thought it best to discuss it in person.”

Jacob gives a grunt in affirmation, carefully easing out of Joseph’s hold, “We can move this inside.” 

“That won’t be necessary. This won’t take long,” Joseph is, still, smiling, but his eyes are slowly dragging themselves away from Jacob’s face and looking past him. The curve of his mouth subdues, Joseph squeezing Jacob’s arm as he walks past. 

“Deputy Staci Pratt. You have changed,” he addresses quietly, drawing closer. Pratt is rigid, jaw tight, eyes turning to Jacob. Jacob gives a nod. 

“I, also, came here to speak to you. To urge you to lend me your ear,” Joseph continues, his voice even — the intoxicating pragmatism and reason dripping from his tongue, “please, walk with me.” A hand doesn’t quite touch Pratt, but it curls just above the space next to his forearm. 

A glance is thrown Jacob’s way by the deputy before he’s walking with Joseph. 

Jacob follows without bothering to ask for permission, a few steps behind the two.

“Years ago, there was a missionary who decided to serve in a region in India where progressive blindness was rampant. There was something in that area that caused the people — most born with healthy vision — to lose their sight as they matured. So the missionary performed an operation. Nothing complex. It was simple and it worked. People would come to him with their poor vision and they would leave knowing they would, finally, be able to see with clarity for the rest of their lives.

“Not one _thank you_ was given, however. It was not because the people were ungrateful. No, it’s because the phrase did not exist in their dialect. Instead, they spoke a word that translated to: ‘ _I will tell your name_.’ Wherever they would go, they spoke the name of the missionary who cured their blindness. They shared not only thanks, but in the same breath, a message of hope,” Joseph pauses, turning his head to smile at Pratt. 

Jacob can’t tell Pratt’s expression, but his head is resolutely tilted down. Perhaps watching his feet.

“The world’s eyesight — _our eyesight_ — is polluted. Cloudy,” Joseph continues, unbothered by the lack of eye contact, but his words are beginning to sour. Voice clipped and firm. “We’ve fallen into another depression and we feel it, but we choose to be blind to it. The hushed fear of people losing their job or struggling to find one; the rise of hate against neighbors; the death of the young in their own homes — their own schools; the greed of men in power who take your name, identity, earnings, and there is no end to it. 

“Yet we sit behind our TVs, bemoan with friends and on social media, but we forget all about it the next day. We’re no longer appalled that there has been fifty-three mass shootings since the start of this year. We’re hardly shocked by the hatred, pollution, and hypocrisy. We have become numb. _Blind.”_

Joseph, finally, lays his hand on Pratt. He takes his arm, steering him into a stop. The deputy, still, won’t meet Joseph’s eyes and Joseph’s hands fix that, rising to his jaw, tilting his head up. He holds him there. 

“My family and I have taken up a labor of love in providing not only clarity, but a shelter of hope. All are welcomed and valued, no matter one’s current vision. There is a sign of hope that has yet to come, but I want _you_ to _witness_ it. It will be a perilous journey to get there, but you are building purpose. I _see_ that.”

Revelations starts to pour from Joseph’s tongue, voice beginning to rise with that oxymoronic calm, yet feverish, reverb:

“For then I saw a Lamb, looking as if it had been slain, standing at the center of the throne. And He came and took the scroll from the right hand of the One seated on the throne. A new song was sung. Worthy are you…because you were slain. Because you have _endured_. Because you have _sacrificed_ until there was nothing left of you. Then it will turn on those who failed to uplift hope. For the great day of _Their Wrath_ will come, and who is able to withstand it? After its wrath, we all will be invited to the marriage supper of the Lamb. A union between faith and great sacrifice. The final message of hope.”

Joseph’s fingers are digging into Pratt’s jaw, the flesh around his fingernails turning from bloodless white to a warning red. Joseph keeps his fingers there until Jacob clears his throat, arms folding before his chest. Joseph’s hands drop, a small smile pulling on his lips.

“I invite you to that table, Deputy Staci Pratt,” he soothes, taking a step back in an attempt to placate whatever the expression may be on Pratt’s face.

He takes his bottom lip into his mouth, sucking on it thoughtfully, adding in a firm warning, “Doubt. Trickery. Hesitation. Vices that jeopardize my family’s safety, however, will never sit at that table. We die to our vices, but we can live for virtues. The only question, now, is whether you wish to live for vision, or whether you wish to die along with a world that never gave you purpose. I hope you will choose wisely. I hope I get to tell your name.”

Joseph grazes his arm in dismissal. Staci, finally, turns to Jacob. The color has seeped from his face, brows wet with sweat. He’s waiting. Ready to leave.

“Go ahead, Staci,” Jacob nods his head, watching the deputy quickly retreat.

He sighs, giving Joseph a look. Joseph simply stares back, something like pity creeping in.

He can feel his nostrils flare in reproach before aborting it with a heavy exhale. “Was that speech for me or for him?” Jacob asks.

Joseph answers with a cryptic shrug of a shoulder and a noncommittal shake of the head.

“Jacob, I was told one of the phones were used. To a residential number.”

He nods, pressing his tongue into the roof of his mouth. Pratt must have decided to call his mom.

“I did not foresee this, but you may have sacrificed this Project by permitting this,” his brother plainly states, offering a weaker smile. “I appreciate your mercy, but there are consequences, no matter the outcome.”

He knows. It was a gamble he willingly took. They won’t know if Pratt sounded off the alarms until an outside force approaches the Sheriff’s Department. That will be his burden to bear.

Joseph’s pity turns softer, feeling fingers reach out to touch one of his hands. “I no longer see you growing old, brother,” Joseph quietly admits, “that future is gone. _That_ is why I’m here.”

 

* * *

 

**April 2018 ►►►  
John Seed**

 

Vera Lynn is whistling out of his lips, a near skip to his steps as he walks deeper into the bowels of the bunker. The ventilation is poor the further in he travels. The air here is reminiscent to a swamp — sticky, humid heat that feels thick to move through. He’s already feeling sweat sit on the back of his hands.

A muffled howl, chair rattling, answers his whistling as he turns the corner. John Seed smiles, tune going sharp.

After laborious weeks of resources, time, and energy spent, John found Deputy Lamb once again. He moves with enthused purpose across his space, barely paying mind to the two strapped in bodies fighting against their restraints. Hudson is the loudest. Annoyingly so. He doesn’t bother sparing her a glance as he places a few items down, whistling louder.

A toolbox quietly thuds at his workstation, unpacking it, the scent of dehydrated meat wafting out. It’s a strangely sweet and processed scent. John wipes the dust off of the surface of the workstation before turning to face Deputy Lamb, lips pulled in a practice smile, hip cocked.

“My parents were the first ones,” he begins, a habitual, mater-of-fact recitation of a story told too many times, “to teach me about the _Power of Yes_.”

John turns, picking at the pile of atoned flesh, “One night, they took me into the kitchen, and threw me on the ground.” He staples one onto his workstation. stapling them to his workstation in presentation.

“My parents were the first ones,” he begins, a habitual, mater-of-fact recitation of a story told too many times, “to teach me about the _Power of Yes_.” He staples another to the workstation, this time with a bit more force than necessary. “One night, they took me into the kitchen, and they threw me on the ground, and I experienced pain, after pain, after pain — ”

The look the deputy is giving him is…an unexpected one. It’s not pity. Not sympathy. Not disgust. Not horror. It’s… _something_ fucking _else_ and —

“— after pain, after pain,” he’s continuing, cutting himself short as he slams the stapler down.

The deputy doesn’t flinch. Continues to give that steady, ‘ _something fucking else_ ' stare.

It feels too much like understanding and it makes him _itch_.

“And when I didn’t think I could take anymore, I did,” John carries on, turning away from the deputy to pick up the tucked away tattoo machine. With it in hand, he closes the distance between them. A lamp is turned on, a damp, orange glow coloring the deputy. “And when I didn’t think i could take anymore, I did. Something broke free inside me. I wasn’t scared. I was…clear. I looked up at them and I started to laugh. All I could say was… _yes_.”

John pauses only to connect the machine to a power source. He gives it a test, the machine buzzing. Hudson is snarling something unintelligible and muffled behind him, instantly reacting. John turns it off, setting down the machine.

“I spent my entire life looking for more things to say ‘yes’ to,” he continues, stepping closer, hands reaching for the front of the deputy’s flannel. John is pulling at the fabric, tugging it apart until buttons are snapping. “I opened up every — _Oh?”_

He stops, limbs frozen in place, staring.

His face starts to slacken, blinking rapidly.

The space is already marked. Which isn’t a problem. There is always untouched skin. There is always a _place_ for his decision. His judgement. It’s what occupies his preferred space that…concerns him.

“What’s this?” he demands, pointing a finger at the Deputy’s chest. The Deputy’s eyes narrow, making a purposeful sound that is partially silenced by the tape over their mouth. John scowls, picking at the tape, pulling it off with a tug.

He asks, again, “ _What’s this?_ ”

The Deputy frowns, brows quizzical, “Uh…a tattoo.”

John balks, a strangled noise blurting out of his mouth. “ _I fucking know that,_ ” he snaps, jabbing his finger, again, at their chest, “Why this? Why did you get this?”

The surreal image of a lamb stares up at him from the Deputy’s chest, its nose darkened, alternating between curled around the ears to jutting out across the top of its skull. Dark pockets of color have been carved out above the nose, acting as eyes and… There…he counts seven each. “There stood a Lamb, as if it had been slain, having seven horns and seven eyes…” he recites under his breath, reaching out to touch the inked skin, reverently.

John ignores the complaining curse. Something wet hits his cheek. Maybe spit. He can’t be bothered.

_Beautiful._

The piece was ambitiously large, ending between her breasts. ‘Was’ because the tattoo is unfinished. It’s only bearing an outline and the beginnings of shading — depth. There is so much detail that still is needed. On the tufts of fur, its jowls… His hand is already reaching for the tattoo machine, before stopping himself.

It’s too much of a coincidence.

John clicks his tongue, giving out an irritating _‘what?’_ when he realizes he ignored the Deputy’s explanation.

“College,” the Deputy repeats, loudly. Adding snidely, only when John’s face begins to twist into frustration, “A friend suggested it. Play off my last name…piss off the parental units."  
  
He stays put, fingers still on their chest, tracing the outline. He’s mulling over her words, weighing its truth, before giving out a pleased, drawn out, “ _Yes_.”

“Joseph showed me how selfish I was being, years ago. Even now,” he starts again, eyes still staring at the tattoo. He could improve this. He could finish this. This…this was meant for him. It must be. John is, already, nodding — imagining, “Always receiving. Always taking. That the best gift isn’t the one you get, it’s the one you give…”

He, finally, pulls his eyes up, finding the Deputy’s gaze.

“I want to give you something, Deputy. You won’t regret this,” he promises with a smile, hand drifting down until fingers are caught in the center panel of her bra. His hand pulls back, pushing the duct tape back in place over Lamb’s mouth, “ _Buuuuuuut_ , before we begin, I think it’s only proper that _Deputy_ Hudson goes back to her room.”

John is making his way to Hudson, curling a hand around one of the armrests and Hudson’s bound arm, “This gift doesn’t need an audience.” He’s pushing Hudson past the Deputy, flashing a smile. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back,” John is calling out, throwing his voice over Hudson’s protests.

Deputy Lamb doesn’t.

She can’t.

The chair’s wheels are locked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was, originally, meant to be something else entirely. A whole different beast.  
> I pinky swear to you all, that the next chapter will have you all going, “Finally.”
> 
> **Hello, Welcome Home Playlist** :  
> [Here](http://carvedwhalebones.tumblr.com/post/176206808943/hello-welcome-home-far-cry-5-there-is-something)
> 
> **Tattoo Inspiration** :  
> [Here](https://www.flickr.com/photos/30273769@N03/11222925744)


	11. When the Morning Light Shines In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me.”_ \- **Revelation 3:20**

**April 2018 ►►►**

**Staci Pratt**

_Wake up._

Staci Pratt’s eyes open, body still. He can feel the helicopter on his left, the radiating heat from the engine warming up his side. It’s secondhand nature, now, to rap his knuckles against the helicopter’s door, to let Lamb’s name slide off his tongue, and watch the Junior Deputy appear. 

The first few steps bring on the stage’s lights, grimy shades of red slowly saturating the scene. Then, the music. The aggressive clanging of piano keys and the slow croon of _Only yyooouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu._

All the props and cues are there, but there is the soft drag of white noise in the background. The low pull of static from television on an inaccessible channel or a radio station losing signal. The music covers it up just enough where it’s unnoticeable, but Pratt can hear it. He can hear the new space yawning across the stage. It leaves Joseph’s compound looking strange… He thinks he sees someone fingering the flimsy curtains shielding the windows. 

Pratt works his jaw, feeling those invisible gears roll in his knee caps, pushing him forward in a steady march. 

More rustling of curtains, unseen eyes watching, but yet…nothing. A hollow nothingness that has Pratt craning his head up towards the sky, squinting. Looking.

_Caaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnnnn mmmaaaakkkkkeee aaalllllllthiiiisssss…_

The building. The one that led him into a decaying Georgia. The one he forced himself into is gone. The gate leading to it is wide open, leaving only a deep groove of disturbed soil where the building once sat. Was that a good sign? 

Pratt lets himself walk forward, the hair on his arms and neck standing. Everything is there, but… Where are the prodding directions and demands? The scorched letters of light calling at him?

_sssssssssssssss rriigggghhtt. Oooooooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnllllyyy yoouuuuuuuuuu…._

Lamb doesn’t deviate from the script, diligently walking down the path. 

Pratt reaches out, but not towards Lamb. No, he’s reaching out towards the metal fencing. His fingers curl around —  

“ _Shit?!_ ” he whimpers, yanking his hand away when it burns on contact. His hand throbs, blood pulsating angrily underneath skin. He cradles his hand into his chest, squeezing hard on his fingers, trying to drown out the burning pain. 

_No, this is wrong. This is too different._

Pratt breathes noisily through his mouth, wet with spit and panic. He’s moving too fast. He’s going to, finally, reach the church. He feverishly glances back to the path and to the fencing, debating on grabbing it, again.

_Caaaaaaannnn mmmaaake thhhhheee ddaaaaaaaarrrr…._

The doors of the church are swinging outward and Pratt’s stomach drops. He’s locking his knees, digging his heels into the dirt. The dirt doesn’t give. His knees won’t listen. He’s walking closer to Joseph Seed until forced to abruptly come to a halt.

Joseph is not like the Deputy — a walking facade of the person. He’s whole. Vividly present and tangible. Joseph’s bare chested once more, but surreality sits in ink of his tattoos. They mimic the unhealthy color of red that eats away at the compound. They look abused and irritated. The preacher walks carefully, eyes washed in yellow from his glasses, eerie and unreal. 

Pratt turns to Deputy Lamb. They’re standing in place, a hand resting on their belt. Why aren’t they doing anything?! _Just like you when Hudson turned to you for help._ Pratt’s bites his tongue, eyes moving to his shoes. 

The music is softer, but Pratt can feel the thrum and clang of the piano keys in his teeth and the ringing of static just underneath.

_Only youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu…_

 

“And the Lamb broke the fifth seal,” Joseph begins, voice thick with trapped phlegm in his throat, “and I saw under the altar the souls of the Martyrs, slain because of the Word of God.” His eyes drag across Pratt, slowly making their way towards Deputy Lamb. A finger is pointed at Lamb, but Joseph is approaching him. He can see the pair of boots making their way towards him. _Fuck_ , he’s moving closer, reaching with his other hand…

_No._

“You’ve made martyrs out of my family, and I’m prepared to do the same to yours.”

**_No._ **

He doesn’t move. He can’t move. Joseph’s hand — frozen to the touch — finds his. Fingers curl tightly around his, squeezing. Pratt can feel panic rising up his throat, breathing in quick successions. His lungs are starting to ache, trying to yank his hand out of Joseph’s grip.

_yyyyooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuuu…_

Pratt throws another glance at Lamb. Pleading. Begging. _Fucking do something_.

Lamb is doing nothing. Joseph squeezes. Harder.

_Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeoncomeon —_

His hand pulls free, roaring in pain where blunt nails dragged across. Immediately, the muscles in stomach jerk inward, pulling his hands back, sticking them out behind him like they just might be grabbed again. He needs to run. He needs to go back to the helicopter, but…he can’t? He can’t move backwards? 

Fuck, he can’t. 

_Shit. Shit. No._  

There is a wall he can’t see against his back. He rams his elbow into it, trying to twist his body. He can see the helicopter, but it’s far. Impossibly far. Pratt throws his shoulder into the barrier, trying.

_ooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu_

Icy fingers find his, again, giving an insistent pull. Pratt swears he sees annoyance. Sees the markings of disapproval pulling on Joseph’s lips and, yet, his brows pinched in pity. A janus-faced concoction that is too familiar to the man who visited them at the Lodge. Too familiar to the thin boy walking down the empty, dirt road of Georgia. Too real. 

The wind is kicked out of his lungs, eyes widening. A terror-stricken gasp yanks past his teeth and he’s hissing out with whatever breath is still in him: 

_“Jacob!”_

Joseph’s hand, immediately, releases him, as if stung. The music comes to a crashing halt and Pratt pitches backward. Nothing is there to stop him, arms waving erratically in the air to grasp for something. He’s falling. Joseph’s compound dissipates as he hurtles further and further away. 

Falling. 

Falling — 

Pratt jerks, eyes flying open, as he hits the bottom. 

The bottom is the truck.

He’s in the backseat of the truck, curled up, squeezed too tightly in a space not meant for this. Someone thought to throw a blanket over him. Pratt buries his hands into the scratchy fabric, trying to warm himself up, feeling the leftovers of Joseph leeching at his skin. A pathetic noise is threatening to leave him, but he swallows it down. 

Pulling himself up, wincing at the ache in his neck and back, he finds the truck to be the one Jacob has been using. It smells like him — telltale scent of singed pine. 

His shoulders sag, taking a deep inhale of the smell. Blearily staring out the window, he finds that they’ve must have stopped on their journey back to St. Francis. They’re awkwardly parked on some dirt road that’s barely wide enough for the truck to fit. 

He can’t quite see Jacob or his Judge anywhere nearby, but Pratt isn’t really trying. 

He drags a hand over his face, sinking into the back of the seat. He keeps his hand over his brows, eyes glazed, staring out the windshield.

.  
.  
.

Knuckles are softly rapping on the window, pulling Pratt’s attention away. Jacob is already opening the door, forehead furrowed, eyes searching him. He licks his lips, opening his mouth, to only be interrupted by something squeezing past Jacob’s legs. A snout pops into view before the Judge is wiggling its way into the back of the truck, half-in.

Pratt can’t help it, he’s crawling close to the Judge, stretching a hand out to scratch the underside of its jaw. 

Something wet is starting to prick and well up in the corners of his eyes, turning his vision blurry. Maybe it’s stupid, but Pratt doesn’t care. He shoves his head against the Judge’s, feeling it push against him, trying to lick his face. He keeps himself there, inhaling the pungent scent of earth and fur.

The sound of boots crunching reaches his ears, footsteps moving away. By the time Pratt pulls back, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, he finds Jacob a ways off. He’s staring at them both, body posture rigid. 

Staci gives a clumsy nod at him and Jacob returns, patting at the Judge’s back to settle back down. 

“You want to ride in the back with him? It’ll be a bumpy ride,” Jacob offers.

He nods, a weak smile tugging on his lips. 

“Hop on back. Take the blanket with you and we’ll make our way home.”

 

**✠✠✠✠✠**

 

He can’t sleep.

It’s not so much the dreams — which have been blissfully uneventful, lately — but the strangeness in sleeping back in his unlocked cell at St. Francis’. The cot feels too stiff. The room carries a sharp chill. It’s too quiet. It’s too loud. It’s too small. It’s, now, too hot. Pratt kicks and squirms with his sheets, never quite content.

“You’re not supposed to be,” he hisses. He _reminds._

Pratt digs a knuckle into the corner of his eye, waiting for colors to bloom in his vision. His hand slides from his eye to his side, staring at the darkened ceiling. With a sigh, Pratt kicks at the sheets and sits up. He wrestles on a pair of jeans and throws on a jacket, fumbling in the dark. He doesn’t bother tying his shoes, shoving the laces inside.

He wanders his way outside, the cool air of early morning in the mountains making him curl into himself. Shuffling his way across the grounds, giving unsure nods at those patrolling, he pauses when he sees orange in the distance. A small glow of bright color before it loses its luster, briefly illuminating a face. It’s too far off for Pratt to see, but he moves toward them.

It doesn’t take long for Pratt to realize it’s Jacob, leaning against a jutting, cement pillar supporting the hospital’s wall. His head is bowed, wearing his signature jacket, but the sleeves have been rolled down.

“I thought there was no smoking allowed,” Pratt announces his presence, earning a quick rise of the head. There is a flash of alert before it relaxes into muted annoyance, the redhead exhaling smoke through his nostrils.   
  
“Planning on snitching, Pratt?” Jacob taunts, voice graveled with sleep and smoke. Jacob places the cigarette back between his lips, sucking on the nicotine and smoke, the cherry of the cigarette flaring.

The wit on Pratt’s tongue is lost, lamely mumbling out a, “Maybe.”

Jacob stares at him over the cigarette before holding it out, offering. Pratt shakes his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Couldn’t sleep?” he tries, again.

Jacob grunts in response.

Staci looks about them, staring at the smaller rows of cages. They’re larger and they almost look like they have padding on the floor, rather than the dirt floors at the Elk Jaw Lodge. “…this where the Judges stay?” he asks, squinting, trying to see if he can see his own.

That gains him Jacob’s attention, giving a nod, “Yours is there. He is your responsibility, now. He goes where you go.” Jacob takes another drag, finishing off the cigarette. He pinches the cigarette off, snuffing it with his forefingers. Whatever impressed hum that leaves Pratt is immediately snuffed when Jacob throws it over the wall.

“Wow. You _really_ don’t want to be caught,” Pratt comments, snorting.

Jacob throws Pratt a withering look, gesturing towards the cages for Pratt to move, “Wipe that smirk off your face.”

“Yes, sir,” Pratt returns, hardly looking or sounding apologetic.

Their voices are hushed as they move through the cages. Areas where food is kept for the Judges, grooming kits, and harnesses are pointed out. Pratt has to squint and move in close in the low lighting to see the specifics.

“Guess I’ll need a name for him,” Pratt comments, slightly elated. He picks at one of the harnesses, turning it in his hands, “ _Hmm_ …what about Paz?”

Jacob is sighing, arms folded over his chest, “I don’t recommend naming him.” Pratt makes a questioning noise in his throat, placing the harness down. “When you name something — an animal, you are humanizing it. You’re making it special in your head. That has the potential to make things messy. What you have and are training with is nothing but a tool,” Jacob warns, sounding strangely recited. Like a tired mantra that has been spoken too many times.

Pratt stays still, face falling.

“You have a name for yours,” he points out, incredulously. Jacob’s mouth continues to look grim. “I think Paz is nice,” Staci continues with finality, purposely moving to fiddle with one of the hanging leashes.

“You don’t really listen, do you?” Jacob comments somewhere behind him. Pratt can’t help but smile. That almost sounded like a compliment.

“When you were showing me how to get _Paz_ ,” Pratt purposely lays on the word as the two move slowly around the hospital, “you mentioned something about snipers. Is that what you did in the military?”

“Army,” Jacob clarifies, naturally pulling his shoulders further back, “I was a marksman for the 82nd Airborne.” He quotes, with just a lit of pride curling the corner of his mouth, “‘ _All the way._ ’”

Pratt’s eyes finally fall on Jacob’s sleeve, staring at the patch. Jacob glances at him, considering, before staring straight ahead.

“They are this country’s strategic offensive force. Highly trained, light infantry that can be up and ready to go in instant,” he continues, matter-of-factly, “they’re…more historically known for their parachute assault.”

Pratt pauses in step, before scurrying after him, brows pinched at Jacob, “Wait, like jumping out of a plane?!”

Jacob nods, smile on his mouth a bit easier, “You must pass Jump School and every so often make jumps to maintain qualification.” He adds, in afterthought, “Combat jumps are very rare. Don’t get too excited.”

“So…marksman is a sniper?”

“Not quite. Marksman and sharpshooters are those who have become experts with a specific weapon. It’s all about high accuracy and working with a unit.” Jacob makes a motion with one hand, forming an imaginary column with his palms. “On the other side,” he gestures, moving his hands to the right, “snipers typically work in pairs. Mostly independent from a unit. Defined by their field craft.”

Pratt is staring, more watching Jacob break down the differences as they make a slow turn when they reach the courtyard. His eyes settle on Jacob’s hands, watching them move through the fading gloom, the sky slowly beginning to lighten.

“ — we are a damn good shot, but we are, always, sketching out and mapping out the environment. You either do it up here,” Jacob is tapping at his skull, “or you actually sketch it out on paper.”

The confusion on his face must be apparent, guilty sliding back into a half-listened-to-conversation. A strangled _‘uh’_ pushes past his lips.

“Oh, didn’t know I was boring you, Pratt,” Jacob gives him a knowing look.

“Well, uh, maybe you can just show me?” Pratt offers quickly, embarrassed. Something tenses in Jacob’s shoulder, turning his head to look somewhere past Pratt’s shoulder.

The silence is overwhelming, Pratt already beginning to shift his weight from one foot to the other. Eventually Jacob gives a nod, slow, still thinking through the suggestion.

“It’ll be a lot, Pratt. Keep up.”

 

* * *

 

**Jacob Seed**

 

The third floor is sectioned off as the Chosen’s private quarters and Jacob’s pseudo-office. Jacob takes lead on the stairwell, a hand already shoved in his jean’s pocket to pull out a key. He pauses, hand heavy on the doorknob once unlocked. Inhaling quietly, he opens the door.

He can already feel Pratt’s eyes roaming, entering after him, already beginning to wander deeper. Jacob closes the door, carefully watching Pratt stare at the made bed, a sleeping bag neatly rolled at the end. He, eventually, turns away from Pratt, moving to a small bag shoved underneath the desk.

“Do you have medals?” Pratt is asking. He can hear the scuffing of his shoes on the floorboards. He’s moving closer towards the turned off desktops.

“I do.”

“But you don’t wear them… I see a lot of the vets here wearing their medals and patches. Not even framed on the wall…”

Jacob scratches a bit too hard at his scalp, crouched next to the bag, unzipping it.

“Pratt, come over here. Pull up a chair,” he orders, pointing to the spot next to him. “So, it pays to be versatile,” he’s beginning to instruct, rummaging through the bag, “to know a little bit of every position. There will come a time where you will have to step up the plate and pick up the slack.”

Pratt drags a chair next to Jacob, taking a seat. Jacob passes him a small booklet. Pratt flips it open, staring intently at it. “It pays to create a brief terrain sketch, especially when moving into unknown grounds. You mark down specific points of interest. Meters.”

Jacob straightens his back from where he’s crouching, peering over the booklet. “Okay, look right there. You see how everything is labeled. This is your snapshot of what is around you. When I was a marksman, this here is a luxury. This is more for snipers and their spotters, but you need to get comfortable sizing up your surroundings, regardless.”

“What’s this of? This sketch,” Pratt asks, tracing the rudimentary sketches of ridges and rocks.

Jacob leans forward, again, staring at the sketch from above.

“Somewhere in the Nineveh Province.” Pratt gives him a look like he doesn’t understand where that may be and Jacob doesn’t elaborate. He moves a finger to the numbers next to each symbol, “Nothing too detailed. Landmarks are numbered and the range is given.”

Pratt’s frowning at him, but he doesn’t press, turning back to the sketch.

“What’s dead space?” Pratt is tapping to the written out words on the far left of the sketch.

“Space that your rifle can’t reach. Goes beyond its range. Or…what you can’t see. Objects in the way,” Jacob explains, gesturing to the room, “whatever is behind this room’s door is dead space. The door is blocking our ability to see beyond it.”

Jacob pulls himself onto his feet, zipping the bag up, throwing it over his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll show you,” he starts, pointing to the crates next to the bed. “Grab one of the rifles. We just need its scope.”

Jacob takes Pratt up to the rooftop, listening to him clamber after him, the strap of the rifle clanking against its frame. He waits once they’re on top, hovering over Pratt as he watches him climb over the red tile. Pratt is doused in the morning light, pinkish in the peeking sun.

“We’re good right here,” Jacob calls out, gesturing with his hand a spot next to one of the protruding chimneys. “Go ahead and set the rifle down. Sit down and tell me what you see,” he instructs, carefully taking a seat. Pratt squirms a bit until he’s comfortable, staring out in front of him.

“Uh…” Pratt starts, pointing out, “there is a road leading up to the hospital.” He shoots Jacob a look, earning an encouraging nod. “…nothing is blocking the view of the road.”

“Good,” Jacob praises, “go on.”

“That’s…” Pratt is searching, guessing, “intentional?” Another approving nod. “There is a pond to our left — ”

“East,” he quietly corrects.

“To our east. No…trees around the lake, but there are some large rocks. Past that is…cluster of trees.”

“And behind us?”

Pratt twists his body, staring behind him, “Mountains.” He glances about him, adding with a growing grin, “On our sides — did you build this place? Only place we need to worry about is what’s in front of us. It’s…perfect.”

Jacob can’t help it, matching Pratt’s grin, proud, “I didn’t, but I picked this place on purpose. So you see how important it is to know what you are entering into and finding that perfect position.” Pratt nods, hopefully understanding. “Everyone thinks that battles are fought with nothing but brute force. Maybe. Perhaps. But, and really listen to this,” Jacob adds, adjusting his posture, leaning in, “it’s all about smarts. Thinking smart. Acting smart. It will help make sure you win the long game.”

“Now,” Jacob continues, ignoring the pinch of a frown on Pratt’s lips, “I want you to sketch what’s in front of you. Don’t worry about the meters.”

Jacob rummages through the bag for a pencil, passing it over to Pratt who is flipping the pad until he finds a blank page. He starts his terrain sketch, Jacob leaned just so he can see his progress.

“Pond looks too shallow to hide in,” Pratt idly mumbles, earning an unseen nod.

Jacob interrupts when the page is filled with basic drawings of the layout of what lays before the hospital. “Good. So a spotter will use a spotting scope. Binoculars don’t do shit, only seeing about two hundred meters out. With these scopes, we can cover longer stretches of ground. This will help us with our ranges,” he starts, “I’m not going to make you figure out the meters. I’ll call them out to you, but I want you to see how I’m getting those numbers.”

“So, just looking at the pond. That is about three hundred meters. So right above — good, just write it down. So if the lake is about 250 meters from where it begins, the rock on the other side is… Just guess.”

“Uh…300-ish?”

“About right. The main point behind this is getting a feel of the distance and location of everything around you,” Jacob coaches, urging Pratt to take the rifle and look through the scope. “Focus. Get a feel for the distance starting from the edge of the pond closest to us and that rock.”

Pratt carefully places the booklet aside, adjusting himself as he holds the rifle up, staring through the scope. Jacob watches his brows furrow, Pratt pressing his eye further towards the lens.

“Jacob, someone is there…” he slowly starts off. Pratt goes rigid, passing the rifle quickly, “someone is in the trees. Uh…west…west of the line. Close to the road.”

He pulls the rifle up, adjusting the rifle and scope. He catches the tail end of someone in a dark jacket.

“Get down, Pratt. Flat. On your stomach,” Jacob orders, sacrificing a hand to reach for his belt, pulling out his radio. The deputy is hastily sliding onto his stomach, breathing hard. Jacob pulls the radio to his mouth, quietly placing the hospital on alert.

“We don’t have bullets,” Pratt hisses out, adding with clarification, “extra. We don’t have extras.”

“Just stay down,” Jacob snaps, making himself low, shifting so the chimney is not blocking his line of sight. He positions the rifle, refocusing on the tree line. He spies a few elbows peeking out, slightly shifting. He can cleanly get it. It won’t kill whoever it may be, but it’ll do damage —

_Tssskkkk._

Someone is moving on the roof, one of the tiles sliding out of place. Jacob jerks his head to the right, watching Pratt crouched low, crawling his way back to the rooftop entrance.   
  
_“Pratt,”_ he snarls, nearly rising up, but aborts the move immediately. Pratt isn’t listening, still moving across the roof. Scowling, he puts the rifle back up, finds his shot, and takes it.

Bullets whiz through the air in retaliation, far off figures taking the opportunity to run to the next area of cover. Jacob follows one, finding the Whitetail Militia patch staring back at him. He takes the shot, watching the patch bloom red.

The radio is alive on his belt, the Chosen and other soldiers coordinating, positioning themselves behind the gate.

Another target, trying to make a break for the massive rock on the shoreline of the pond. He watches the body do a strange jerk back when the bullet hits center mass.

Another target, a woman, carrying a pistol —

_Click._

Jacob grinds his teeth. Pulling the trigger again.

_Click._

He’s dislodging the magazine; empty.

_Fuck._

He can feel his hand twitch, moving his hand to the holster on his thigh. He won’t be able to hit a target four hundred meters away with it. _Shit._

“Jacob,” his name is being shouted, turning. Pratt is awkwardly making his way back to him, holding with one hand what looked like spare magazines against his stomach. Jacob grabs at him the moment he’s within reach, none too kindly forcing him down.

_“Don’t be stupid, Peaches_ ,” Jacob snarls, but Pratt is ignoring him, again. He’s shoving a spare magazine in his hand. “You stay down. You hear me?” he’s nearly barking, the deputy quickly nodding his head. _“You hear me?_ ”

“Yeah. Yes, yes, sir,” he rushes out, almost shooing Jacob to go back to his rifle. Jacob’s lips purse together, but he turns back.

Jacob slides the magazine in place, hearing the familiar click of it locking in place. He picks four more before the scene settles, turning quiet. He keeps his eyes on the tree line, watching.

“Pratt, take the radio,” he orders, immediately feeling a hand on his side, wrestling the radio off his belt. “Bring it up here.” Pratt already is pressing the push-to-talk button, holding the radio to his mouth. “In two minutes, send four Judges out to search for stragglers. Understood? Over.”

_“Understood. Over,”_ the radio crackles back.

Pratt places the radio down, but he’s settled far too close to his left side and elbow. He can feel his hand, tight and rigid over his rifle, aching. They both watch the Judges race out, covering ground within seconds. They emerge out of the tree line howling before sticking their noses to the ground. Jacob sighs, placing the rifle down.

_“They’re down. Over,”_ the radio confirms.

Pratt is starting to pick up the bag, the booklet, but Jacob is shaking his head, telling him to stop. He needs to get back on solid ground. _Now_. He can’t stop grinding his teeth, his jaw starting to tighten. He’s nearly pushing at Pratt to move faster, hand steady on his back.  
  
He can see it once they get back to his room. The shake of adrenaline that is making Staci’s hands restless by his side. It’s why he keeps on moving them up, wringing his hands, glancing at the window. He can’t keep still, always moving. His brows are heavy with sweat, starting to spill over.

Jacob sets the rifle down before pulling the radio to his mouth, “Keep me updated on the clean up. Over.” He sets the radio down on the edge of the table of monitors. He rounds in on Pratt, watching his eyes move straight to him. “Why’d you do that, Pratt?” he rumbles out, feeling his own words in his gut.

No response, but Pratt’s mouth is moving like it wants to say something, but he can’t quite spit it out.

**_“What were you thinking?”_** Again. Deeper. He’s drawing in a deep inhale, forcing himself to exhale slowly out his nose.

Pratt is shaking his head, looking shocked, pupils blown out that they’re eating away at the brown in his eyes. “I don’t know,” he admits, out of breath, “I don’t know. I just did. I just did.”

“That was _reckless_ , Staci.”

He steps closer, moving a hand to curl around the side of Staci’s throat, thumb pressed into his jaw line. Pratt’s pulse is jumping against his fingers and Jacob can’t help but shake his head. More in disbelief. Surprise.

“But you did good,” he praises, Pratt’s eyes go half-lidded, sagging into his hand. He can feel the energy exuding out the deputy — warm against his palm, slick with sweat. “You did _good_ ,” he reiterates, closer, growled out. He’s crowding further into Pratt’s space and Pratt doesn’t step back. He holds his ground, the two of them gently colliding.

_“You did good.”_

It doesn’t take much. The hand on Staci’s throat slides up, curling into the back of his hair. He pulls on it, Pratt hissing, turning quiet when teeth press into his exposed throat. They don’t quiet sink into flesh, but they press in, sliding their way up to his jaw. There are hands digging and gripping the fabric of Jacob’s shirt.

“Come on,” Pratt huffs, impatient.

Jacob tilts his mouth up and sinks his teeth deep into the side of Pratt’s jaw. A strangled whine leaves Pratt and Jacob tugs Pratt towards his mouth, other hand moving to cup the untouched side of his face. He’s kissing him. Slow. Lips pressing hard against the other, teeth a present threat throughout. Pratt tastes of sweat, copper, and a hint of something sweet that he can’t figure out.

The radio stirs to life behind them, “ _Twelve bodies. Two are still breathing. What do you want us to do about them? Over.”_

He ignores it, growling in approval when Pratt’s lips move against his. An unintelligible word of praise slips past Jacob’s lips, lost in Pratt’s mouth.

_“Sir? Are you there? Over.”_

Pratt is the one pushing at his stomach, Jacob slow to pull away. _God_ , Pratt’s lips are red, slick, and kiss-bruised. His bottom lip is already swelling, Pratt pulling it into his mouth, sucking on it. Jacob’s nostrils flare, stepping back to grab at the radio.

“Put the two in the cages. Get rid of the rest. Over,” he, finally, returns, slightly unsteady. He starts to place the radio down, but stops himself midway. He pulls it back to his mouth, adding, “Send your updates to next in line. No one should be contacting me on this channel unless there is an emergency. Over.”

Jacob turns the radio’s volume down low, making his way back to Staci Pratt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** I’ve been using the titles of the soundtrack as titles for the chapter. A very fun fact. This song “When the Morning Light Shines In" is the lighter and more hopeful version of “In The Forest Hides a Light.” I highly suggest playing those two songs and checking out the similarities and differences. Cheers! :)


	12. Digging My Own Grave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practice magic arts, the idolaters and all liars – they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second death.”_ **\- Revelations 21:8**

_“You did good.”_

The compliment hits him straight in the gut, a sharp flare of heat curling in on itself. It mixes harmoniously with the shaky, singular line of adrenaline coursing through his veins. Jacob is so close, teeth on his throat, both a promise and a threat. Staci tilts his head back, exposing his throat in a Pavlovian display.

More. He wants more. 

He can feel the heat in his gut uncoiling — spreading itself up to his chest, rising towards his face as Jacob’s teeth finds his jaw and sinks in. The pain shoots down to his groin. A whimper dredges itself out of his throat and he’s spreading his legs, demanding more. _More. More. More_. He’s waiting for the rush of directionless touches. 

He’s waiting for teeth on his throat. Again, on his jaw. On his collarbone. Shoulder. Instead, Jacob Seed kisses him. 

_Oh._

Pratt’s eyes fly open, going crosseyed with Jacob’s close proximity. He stays put, unsure, feeling Jacob’s lips move slowly against his. There is a hint of teeth throughout. Teeth dragging against his bottom lip, but it’s different. It’s less threat, more caution.

His eyes, slowly, close and he, finally, returns the kiss. 

It’s a soft and simple thing — kissing. The act feels foreign and new, like he’s kissing for the first time in ages. _Fuck_ , if he can even remember the last time he kissed someone. Months ago? Further back? A warm body in the back of a bar in Polson, opening his mouth to him. He kissed back then to bruise and be bruised, but now… Pratt’s not sure. Not even sure of who’s leading this. 

He’s pushing against the slow draw of Jacob’s lips, earning a rumble of approval that has his teeth shaking. It’s unintelligible, but Pratt knows it, is arching forward into the compliment and its source: _You did good._

He can hear it rattling in his head, the low drawl of praise that has him tightening his grip on Jacob’s jacket, pulling him in. 

The radio crackles, briefly pushing him back to the surface, swimming through the thick haze of _more_ and _teeth_ and _mouth_ and _touch_ and _need._

 _“Sir? Are you there? —_ **WHAT ARE YOU DOING, DEPUTY?** _— Over?”_

Pratt sucks in air loudly, hands pushing at Jacob’s stomach. The sudden insert from the radio sounds too much like Joey and Whitehorse, their voices blended, but distinct.

His eyes feel heavy, forcing himself to open them, staring through half lidded lens Jacob stepping back. The dog whistle around his neck stares accusingly at him. 

 _What_ **_was_ ** _he doing?_

This wasn’t his first firefight. This wasn’t the first time he reacted to bullets whizzing through the air.

The first one was in the Henbane River a year back where an in-person reminder that rainwater collection is illegal dissolved into bullets and shouts. Pratt bolted — hightailed it to the back of a truck, trying to make himself small against one of the tires, shaking. He clutched onto his knees, squeezing his elbows in. He stayed there until it ended, shamefully peeling himself from the truck only when the _all clear_ was given.

Whitehorse gave him a pitying look. Hudson sighed, walking past him.

He knows he’s not cut out to be a deputy. He knew it when he signed up. Knew it when he graduated from the academy. Knew it when he took his oath. A part of him reveled in his own disinterest in the post, but it was moments like those that had him shrinking in his own uniform. 

Then, there was Jacob Seed and, this time, he acted.

Jacob needed ammo; Pratt ran for it, scuttled his way across the roof, ignoring the instinctual scream to hide. Ignoring habit and history that told him to stay still on his belly. Ignoring the obvious threat of bullets streaking above his head. 

He couldn’t fight the sick apprehension that hit him square in the gut at the thought of Jacob being killed. Jacob was not theirs to put to rest. The inane thought pounded in his head as he watched Jacob carefully take aim. So he ran with purpose.

**YOU’D RATHER SAVE HIM OVER U —**

_“You did good.”_

Pratt hums to the praise, pulling him back, tension that had wedged itself into the middle of his back relaxing. He watches Jacob reach for one of the chairs in the room, dragging it until it’s dead center in the room.

“Strip and sit, Pratt,” he orders, but the words lack their authoritative bite. 

The heat from before is still making its gradual ascent, brushing his cheeks and nose red. He stares at the chair before fastening his eyes on Jacob. “All of it?” he hoarsely asks, quickly clearing his throat.

Jacob’s eyes dip, drifting somewhere beneath his chin, slowly falling further down. Down. Down. Down. Pause, Jacob moving a hand to abstractly scratch at his jaw. Pratt inhales and exhales shakily, feeling the blood pulsating underneath the skin of his cheeks. His hands fidget by his side, making a loose swing forward, as if to hide his front.

“Jacob?”

“Keep your shirt and underwear,” Jacob settles on with a wry smile, pulling his gaze away. 

Pratt is toeing out of his boots and slipping out of his jacket, motions borderline erratic. There is a surreality to this all — stripping for Jacob Seed, as if he plunged himself into a strange moment in time not ever meant to exist. He can’t figure out if this is him pinning for positive feedback, a strange dream, or something else entirely. It’s a debate that sees little to none airtime. He’s too focused on shimming out of his jeans, kicking them off to a corner. 

“Hands behind the chair,” Jacob instructs when Pratt, finally, sits. Pratt complies, loosely holding his hand and wrist behind the back of the chair. His heart is already pounding in his chest, sweat prickling on his brows and on the back of his neck.

Jacob shrugs off the worn, military jacket, draping it over one of the computer monitors. Pratt follows him  with his eyes, watching him grab another chair, setting it next to him. He can see the unevenness of Jacob’s shoulders, the left slightly higher than the right as Jacob sits. The bubbling and warped ridges of old scars splattered across his right cheek and forehead. The inviting swell of his bottom lip. 

“You could have run, Peaches. Could have tried your luck and run that night,” Jacob interrupts, voice low. Pratt feels a hand curl around the meat of his thigh. 

“Yeah,” he breathes back, staring.

Pratt wets his lips, very aware of the lack of space between them, of the heavy weight of Jacob’s hand on curling inward, digging just so into muscle. He can’t help himself. He can’t help spreading his legs just a bit further, exhaling thickly. 

“You could have called for help, but you didn’t, Pratt,” he continues, hand beginning to move. It drags up his thigh, fingertips briefly catching on the edge of his boxers, hiking the loose fabric. The hand keeps on moving, past his hip, curling around the hem of his shirt. Jacob is rucking up his shirt, pushing the fabric past one shoulder so it remains partially up. 

His hand runs across his chest, slowly exploring. Roughened fingers disturb the dark dusting of chest hair, pushing them the wrong way. Pratt pulls his stomach in when they drift lower, his eyes shifting between staring at Jacob’s fingers to watching his face. 

“Could have left me high and dry, Staci.” Jacob’s voice turns dangerously low and rough. Quieter, as if meant for him to hear and him alone. “No ammo,” he lists off, a thumb swiping at an exposed nipple, Pratt pulling his bottom lip into his mouth. He’s staring at Jacob’s mouth, the rumbling cadence of his voice pulling him taught, inching towards the edge of his own chair, towards him. 

“It would have taken me a good while to get to ground level.”

He must be closer, because Jacob’s mouth is there. The even breath he takes between each pause fills his skull, a humid and thick cloud. 

“A lot can happen in those few minutes,” his voice remains impossibly even, deceptive, save for the corner of Jacob’s mouth twitching upward when a hand curls tight over the hard line of Pratt’s cock.

Pratt hisses in surprise and pleasure, hips doing a strange jerk backwards into the chair. Jacob is impossibly close, now, leaned forward, their breaths clustering together. He grinds his palm against Pratt’s cock through the thin fabric of his underwear, Pratt’s hips rocking into the weight. The feeling leaves him feverish, releasing one of his hands to grab at Jacob’s arm. 

Jacob’s mouth moves towards his ear, hot air buffeting him, growling, “Hands behind the chair, Peaches. I won’t tell you again.” 

_Fuck._

His hand snaps back in place, nodding messily, struggling to breathe. 

Jacob’s hand grips him as well as he can through his boxers, sliding firmly down. Pratt gasps, toes curling. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s not enough, the fabric leaving a warm burn with each slow stroke. He can feel the part of his boxers wet with precum slide across the tip and, suddenly, press heavily down with each downward pull. It’s nothing. Chases of a feeling he wants more of, but it leaves him gaping, staring at the sight of Jacob’s hand on his lap.

“Breathe,” Jacob coaches and Pratt’s nodding, noisy inhaling, “ _Good_.” 

Pratt pulls his gaze away when the heat broiling in his gut begins to become too much too soon, mentally staving it off. His eyes fall on Jacob, the thickness of his own arousal tight and pinned beneath the fabric of his jeans. Pratt swallows hard, staring. 

“See something you like, Peaches?” It’s a near purr, the sound amused and vibrating in Jacob’s chest. Pratt can feel his own cock jump in Jacob’s grip, his next breath whooshing out. 

It’s too easy to give a drunken nod and a rushed _yes._

Jacob’s hand leaves him, Pratt arching his hips to chase the disappearing pressure. 

Scarred hands are slowly picking at the button of his jeans, the drag of the zipper suddenly too loud. Jacob doesn’t push his jeans down, just slips a hand underneath the band of his underwear, pulling himself out. 

He’s intimidatingly thick all around, coarse, rust-colored hair peeking over his jeans and surrounding the base. The rise of blood has left the curved tip of his cock swollen and red, the color blooming a darker shade when Jacob’s hand gives a lazy stroke, squeezing at the top. Pratt stares, transfixed at the sight of precum beading out, feeling himself shift restlessly in his chair. 

“Take the underwear off, Peaches.” 

Pratt is nodding, lifting himself from the chair to push down his boxers, kicking them aside. His shirt falls back down with his movements, but he doesn’t bother to fix it. Pratt hurries his way back to his seat, hands returning behind the chair. 

“You could have run. Could have called for help. You didn’t. Why?” Jacob reiterates, watching him, features unreadable.

Pratt is scrambling to gather himself, thoughts a chaotic concoction of nothingness and, yet, everything. It takes him too long for him to recall the beginning part of their conversation. He still doesn’t know. He still can’t give a straight answer as to why.Can’t even begin to dissect or understand why.

A sliver of panic pierces through the veil of _want_ and _more._ It coils messily in his gut with the heat, wincing. 

“It’s not because of me,” Jacob cuts through the silence. 

Pratt exhales shakily, strangely relieved and comforted by those words. 

“You’ve made yourself strong here. You’ve given yourself purpose here. It’s too good to walk from it,” his voice his barely above a murmur, closer, now, hand curling around the back of his throat. The scent of smoke and musk is heavy, Jacob’s cock dangerously close, but not enough to draw his attention away from Jacob’s mouth. “That was, and still is, all your doing,” he finishes.

It’s a compliment. A bizarre admission. An odd _thank you_. It doesn’t answer the larger question at hand, but Pratt sits with those words, unsure. The panic slowly slips off into the distance, attention drifting back to Jacob, his hand returning to stroke himself. 

The sides of his hand and fingers are wet with spilled precum, collecting with each languid rise of his hand. His hand moves, offering his fingers to Pratt. Pratt doesn’t hesitate to take his fingers into his hand, popping them into his mouth. He tastes like salt, blood, and metal. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s sucking on Jacob’s fingers, tongue curling around his forefinger, until Jacob’s breath hitches. 

“Look at you, Peaches,” he absently murmurs, pushing in another finger, “I bet you could take more than my fingers.”

Pratt feels overheated, unwilling to meet Jacob’s stare. With a slow pull of his fingers, Jacob’s gone, leaving a string of spit before it snaps off. 

Jacob sits back down, spit-slicked fingers wrap firmly around Pratt, thick and warm. 

“Say ‘ _I’m getting close, sir’_ when you’re good and ready,” Jacob grunts, “understood?”

Pratt nods, gritting his teeth when Jacob’s hand starts to move. His strokes are never full and complete, always starting somewhere in the middle and rising upward. He can’t be bothered to sit still. With sharp motions, he rolls his hips into Jacob’s hand, feeling the heaviness of his own breathing weigh on his chest. Each inhale and exhale feels laborious, dumbly staring down at the sight of his cock briefly disappearing in the thick grip of Jacob’s hand before reappearing. 

He’s already dangerously close, trying to push the rising heat down, to keep himself like this, suspended between _just right_ and _just a bit more_.

Pratt turns back, looks up at Jacob to find Jacob staring back. He’s staring somewhere around Pratt’s mouth, fascinated, absorbed. 

“ _S-shit_ ,” Pratt heaves and sputters out, hips jerking in Jacob’s grip, remembering, “ _— getting close, sir._ ”

Jacob’s hand leaves, Pratt wildly staring at him, stupidly gaping up at the man. 

“Then finish.”         

Pratt is fumbling with himself, his hands feeling too smooth and dry to the touch. Jacob is moving, moving so he’s standing in-between his legs, palm curled tight around the base of his own cock. His strokes are lackadaisical compared to Pratt’s hurried movements. The sight leaves him swearing under his breath.

It doesn’t take him long to suddenly tense up, heartbeat racing madly in his ear, as he picks up the pace of his hand. He groans, openly, feeling wet heat spill over his hand and thigh. 

_“Good boy.”_

Pratt shakes, eyes shuttering to a close, feeling his limbs begin to turn boneless and impossibly warm. 

Jacob’s hand curls into his hair, tilting his chin up, mouth falling open. The grip on his hair tightens and he can’t feel Jacob, but he’s close. He can inhale the sweat coming off of Jacob, feel the sweltering heat radiating off of him in waves. 

“Keep your mouth open. Don’t swallow.”

 _Fuck, it’s going to happen._  

Pratt tenses. Waiting. Something hits the roof of his mouth and teeth, fighting back the instinctual urge to jerk back. Jacob tastes heavy of salt, spurting into his mouth in thick ropes, collecting in the back corners of his molars and throat. He wants to close his mouth around where he can blindly guess is Jacob, but a warning tug is given, pinching at his scalp. He keeps his mouth open, jaw beginning to ache, listening to the sound of skin rubbing on skin, Jacob’s moan low and hard. 

“Open your eyes,” Jacob’s voice comes in, rough and used. 

Pratt opens his eyes, staring up at Jacob. His cheeks are flushed, his scars blanched and noticeable patches across his face. He can see his hand still working, finishing emptying himself, streaking Pratt’s tongue. Pratt doesn’t need to hear the compliment. He can feel it in the way Jacob’s fingers loosen in his hair, pads of his fingertips rubbing into his scalp. 

Jacob leans in, kisses Pratt slowly, collection of spit and Jacob swishing between them both. It leaves Pratt heady, breaking the rules, moving his hands to find Jacob. They settle just underneath his jaw, groaning in appreciation at the racing jump of Jacob’s pulse against his fingers. 

Jacob is the first to pull away, hand still lost in Pratt’s hair. “Go ahead, Staci,” he breathes out and Pratt swallows, earning a low noise in approval. 

It takes Jacob a while before parting from Pratt altogether, tucking himself in his jeans, returning his own chair back to where he plucked it from.

Pratt tiredly watches, feeling his skin cooling. His eyes momentarily pause at what looks like a bulletin board in the back, emptily staring at the faraway image of…himself? Pratt squints before tipping his head back, sagging in his chair. 

“Shower?” Jacob offers and the pathetically pleased noise that leaves Pratt has Jacob laughing, open and honest. 

“And a shave,” Pratt adds, testing his luck.

He uprights himself, cracking an eye open to find Jacob nodding. He’s offering Pratt back his tossed underwear and something about it seems…strangely humorous. He takes it, wobbling onto his feet to step into them. A hand lays itself on his ribcage to help center him, fingers curled just slightly around his side, big and comfortable. 

“I can promise you a shave,” Jacob concedes. His hand slides away before Pratt can move to catch it.

Jacob is pulling away, gesturing towards the door with nod of the head. 

“Go clean up, Pratt. Bathroom is down the hallway, on your left.”

Confusion flashes on Pratt’s face, as if expecting something different. He hesitates, just a for a moment, before picking at his shirt, making his way out of the room by himself. 

 

* * *

 

 **April 2018 ►►►** **  
** **John Seed**

 

_“John, I fear there is a great misunderstanding — “_

**Voicemail deleted.    
  
**

_“After all the atonements, all the confessions, all that you have done for me and Eden’s Gate, it’s not enough, is it, John?”_

**Voicemail deleted.    
  
**

_“Two souls have evaded the truth — they’re lost. One of them is important, John. One of them will test you. One of them will weigh your heart against a feather of your truth — ”_

**Voicemail deleted.**

 

 ******✠✠✠✠✠**

  
****

When Deputy Lamb finally opened her eyes, the room remained unchanged. She can’t tell if it’s morning or night, the bunker’s lighting remaining consistently dim. With a disgusted mutter, she pulls himself from the flimsy mattress thrown on the floor. There are a few more, but no one else is sharing the cell with her. It’s just her, the low sound of the ventilation system at work, and the faraway shuffle of footsteps.

Pushing herself up, she blearily stares around her, cradling her head. It feels like she’s nursing a hangover. Digging a knuckle into her forehead, her eyes catch the flash of red in the corner. A camera is peering down at her, flickering in activity.

Lamb frowns at it, throws up a defiant middle finger. She shuffles her way to the door of the cell and its thick flaps for bars, pushing her hands out.

No one. She can’t see any guards. She can spy another camera at the edge of the adjacent room.

 _“Hey!”_ Lamb belts out. There is the sound of feet scuffing at the floor in the cell next door. **_“Hey!”_** Louder, nearly squeezing her face through the bars.

No one is racing towards her. Is that on direct orders? Or can they not hear her?  
  
Lamb takes a step back, squints hard at the camera.

“Rook?” a voice filters through, broken and raspy.

Lamb rushes back to the bars, tries to peer through. She can’t see anything, but a hand is sticking out, catching glimpse of red and blue ink on a forearm.

“Joey?!” she shoots back, sticking her hand out, groping blindly until she feels fingers grabbing hers. A relieved noise comes from her neighbor, wet and choked. The hand squeezes Lamb’s, tight near bruising.

“Oh fuck, God, I’m so happy it’s you,” Joey heaves, voice cracking from disuse, “I didn’t think…”

There is a pregnant pause. Lamb squeezes the hand back.

“I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’m here,” Lamb tries, earning a noise in agreement.

“What happened? Is Pratt okay? Whitehorse?”

Another pause. Lamb is gnawing on her bottom lip. It’s too long of pause because Joey is giving a distraught noise, a hushed _“Oh fuck. God_ ” shuddering out.

“No, it’s not like that,” Lamb hurriedly assures, “I don’t think it is. I’m…they’re alive. That’s all I know.”

Joey is quiet and Lamb likes to think she’s nodding, thinking the next steps through. Focused. “Help coming?” she asks.

_No._

“I…the people here are willing to fight,” Lamb carefully settles on.

“Did you get help though? From the outside? Did you get a hold of someone?”

No. She has no clue how to repair the radio towers. Hasn’t really bothered trying to find a way past the collapsed tunnels and roads leading out. There are helicopters…planes, but… Lamb’s jaw goes tight.

“I…no, but the locals are here.”

Joey’s hand wiggles out of her’s, leaving her hand to hang in the air.

“Fuck the locals, Rook!” Joey is seething, the sound of metal angrily banging against the other echoing in the hallway, “they don’t know how to fight. _We need National-fucking-Guard! The Army! Something!”_

Lamb pulls her hand back into the cell, quiet.  
  
“ _Did you even try?!_ Crossing county lines? The radio?” Joey continues on, voice carrying the shrill quiver of hysteria, nearly escalating to a scream. No response is given. Silence. “What have you been doing?!” her throat chokes up, “sitting on your ass?! Playing hero?!”

“I’ve been trying to get to you!” Lamb returns, raising her own voice and hating the hostile barb taking root. She tries again, trying to level her own voice, “Taking back the town. Helping the locals.”

Joey doesn’t reply immediately, but there is the sound of an audible sniff, something slapping a hard surface.

“Fuck you, Rook.”

 

**✠✠✠✠✠**

 

“I told you. The best gift isn’t the one you get, it’s the one you give.” 

John embraces the echo of his voice in the lower levels of the bunker, pleasantly puttering about his workstation, straightening his toolbox. The air is thick and wet, scent of damp dust, blood, and sweat nauseatingly cloying. John embraces it, inhales deeply through his nostrils. 

“I hope you’ve been enjoying the new —” John turns, making small circles with his finger, smiling, “roommate situation. Suite mates. I know I have.” 

“But that’s not _really_ the gift I’ve been _dying_ to give,” he continues, turning his back, again, to the Deputy, uncaring of the lack of response. He finishes tidying up his space before turning to Deputy Lamb, strapped to a gurney, the metal rusting and suspicious. Her face is contorted and pinched, mouth sealed shut by tape. John gives his best smile, leans forward, and grabs one of the gurney’s edges, dragging it towards him.

John adjusts the gurney, lowering it, before moving to grab a chair. He rolls it next to the Deputy, fingers moving to undo the front of her blouse.

“Oh, I must have been in junior high when I got my first tattoo,” he begins conversationally, lips curling into something softer when he spies Lamb’s inked chest. He undoes the blouse completely, pushing it aside. His fingers wiggle themselves underneath the deputy’s back, groping for the back of her bra. It takes a moment for her to realize, legs beginning to trash in their restraints, twisting. 

“Oh, shut up,” he snarls, irritated. He gives a harsh tug, cheap metal snapping, before its loose. He keeps the undergarment loosely detached and off her shoulders, poorly covering her up. 

“Stick and poke tattoo,” John carries on, grabbing a damped rag from his station, carefully cleaning the area. “On my ankle — easiest place to hide, so I thought. There is something so thrilling about the second prick on the skin. The first always hurts. You always misjudge and push a bit too deep. The second…you can gauge how deep. What’s enough.” 

John lets the skin air dry, slipping latex gloves on, “Happened in the school bathroom. Didn’t have a vision in my head, per se, I just did it. A circle. Nothing special.” He moves to fiddle with the tattoo machine and the small containers of dark ink ranging of different hues, the lightest being a muddy brown. “But I knew the minute I started that I wanted more.” 

The tattoo machine starts to buzz, sliding closer to the Deputy’s side, hunching over her chest. The first press of the machine has the Deputy’s hands pulling into fists, but she remains put. “Good,” John hums, beginning the slow work of shading — adding depth into the outline. “Anyhow, I came home, feeling rather good about myself and somehow my foster parents saw it.” Something in his jaw twitches, eyes fixated on his work. 

“My foster parents were…very devout,” he begins, words sour off his tongue, but smile still practiced and present on his lips, “even had a tiny chapel in the backyard. Easily could mistake it for a shed. They quickly ushered me there by the back of my collar, threw me on my knees. Told me to…beg for forgiveness. Confess and beg.” 

John shrugs, pausing to wipe off the excess ink, before returning. 

“Nothing satisfied them. No amount of begging. Pleading. Crying,” he ticks off, voice falling into a disturbed chortle, “oh, they tried so hard to scrub my ankle clean.” 

“Unconvinced of my penance, I was told the only way to atone was through the, uh, _mortification of the flesh,_ ” the words cut too sharply off his tongue, knuckles beginning to blanch white, _“very_ Roman Catholic. My parents didn’t have anything at the time, forcing me to use a switch. The idea was to kill the sins of the flesh. And I hit, and I hit, and I hit until my arms were sore and I couldn’t feel anymore. That white noise numbness…” 

John sighs, opening his mouth, but the Deputy is starting to make noises, again. Loud, interrupting noises muffled and trapped behind the tape. 

John purses his lips, continuing, “While I can’t wholeheartedly agree with mother and father dearest, there is something courageous about bearing the burden of your sins. Of destroying and removing it from you. To remove yourself from beyond the confines of wasteful flesh — _what?!_ ”

The same annoying rancor. John pauses and pulls at the corner edge of the duct tape. 

“So you’re following in your parents’ footsteps,” she heaves out, lips dry and cracked from the tape. 

John stares before he’s seething back, nearly rising from his chair, eyes wide, “I’m _nothing_ like them.”

“How are you _not_ like them? Any of them?”

John’s face twists into an expression of raw, unqualified hatred. His right hand closes like a clamp around her neck, squeezing. The tattoo machine continues to buzz, suspended above Lamb’s chest. Lamb is meeting his gaze, color beginning to swim up to her cheeks and forehead. Her eyes already are watering, blinking furiously, tendons and muscles bulging and flexing underneath his hand. 

She doesn’t beg. Plead. Thrash. She just stares and would have been completely unmoved by what was taking place if it wasn’t for the instinctual drive of life forcing minuscule reactions.

John looks down, vision a slight blur, and his hand unclenches. The Deputy noisily inhales, coughing. Furiously lurching off of his seat, John turns off the tattoo machine, slamming it down on the metal tray. With a hunched back, he turns away from the Deputy. A hand shakily pushes its way through his sweaty locks, trying to _think._ To _compose._

“Well,” he starts, slowly re-centering himself, “we all know what happens when we _assume_.”

The Deputy gives another cough, the sound of the gurney groaning warningly at her moving. John can feel the heated tattoo of his heart underneath his skin, thoughts a haphazard collision of panic and fury.

“Yeah,” she starts, “you make an ass out of your — ”

**_“Sleȩp͙̤.”_ **

The gurney no longer is groaning and the Deputy goes quiet.

 

**✠✠✠✠✠**

 

_“John, ignorance is never bliss. Not for us, at least — ”_

**Voicemail deleted.  
**

_“Cast away your past. You need to open up your heart. You need to see there is more love all around you — ”_  
****

**Voicemail deleted.  
**

_“All the pain and suffering you spread will not help us in the long run. These actions will only feed the sin inside of you. It will grow stronger. It will convince you to do wicked things —”_  
****

**Voicemail deleted.  
**  
_“John, no test needs to be faced alone.”_  
****

**Voicemail deleted.  
**

_“John, it’s Jacob. Call me.”_  
****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thanks for being patient with the update! Hope you enjoyed it!_


	13. To Pull a Man's Soul Back from Heaven's Gates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"They cried out with a loud voice, “O Sovereign Lord, holy and true, how long before you will judge and avenge our blood on those who dwell on the earth?” Then they were each given a white robe and told to rest a little longer, until the number of their fellow servants and their brothers should be complete, who were to be killed as they themselves had been.”_ \- **Revelations 6:9-11**

**May 2018** ►►►  
**John Seed**

 

**" _The Gate to the new Eden will be locked for you, John.._."**

The sweltering heat of the bunker is lining his eyebrows with sweat. Bent over the deputy’s torso, the soft hum of the tattoo machine competes with the familiar clunking and groaning of the bunker. It breathes with John — noisy, occasionally labored. He can fix this. Already most of the tattoo has been completed, John’s wrist aching with an unfamiliar stillness. He has to remind himself to lightly press down, to follow the lines.

He’s working on the horns, now, drawing in the grooves and natural divots.

“The first time I saw you, I felt something between us,” John picks up where he left off, pausing to wipe off excess ink. He throws a glance up at Deputy Lamb who is staring up at the ceiling, forehead scrunched. A pretty flush has captured her collarbone and throat, sweat collecting in all the bends and curves. Her breasts lay exposed, naturally sloping to their respective sides. He can’t be bothered to appreciate the sight, the weight and expectation of the tattoo a momentous challenge.

“This uncanny connection. A bond,” he continues, leaning back to get a better view of his work.

He can fix this.

“I believe in fate,” he rattles on, letting the sound of his voice fill the room, softly echoing back, “there is a reason why you are here. In that church. In Hope County. There is something between us. I can see it.”

The Deputy snorts through her nose. John works his jaw, pinching his brows together.

“You just need to say _yes_ ,” he finishes flatly.

He drags the needle down —

_Fuck._

He pressed too deep — _he didn’t mean to._ It’s fucking spreading. John sucks in the air noisily, pressing a gloved thumb into his mess. He swipes at it and lifts. No. _No._ An unpredictable network of ink is spreading underneath the skin, stretching past his carefully drawn lines. His first blowout. He wipes at the mess with cloth, right knee bouncing.

It’s still there.

He wipes, again. A little forceful.

Still there.

He wipes, wipes, wipes, and it’s still there. A small, inked blur. He doesn’t understand, he _tried._ Deputy Lamb is staring at him past her nose, mouth sealed shut by tape. Her face is unreadable. John doesn’t know what to do. What to say. He can feel his heart beating heavily, feeling like he might cry, the corners of his eyes alit with that telling _ache_.

“I can fix it,” he settles on after a moment, voice sounding strange to his own ears.

Deputy Lamb lets her head thud back on the gurney, eyes closing. John looks down confusedly at her before returning to her chest, tattoo machine still humming to life in his hand. He starts on another section and lays the needle down, slower.

.

.

.

  
The blowout has grown as the tattoo heals over the next few days. It’s, now, a stretched blur of black ink, about the size of the flat of his thumb.

John tapes gauze over the marking. He’ll work on the jowls of the lamb, today.

“Joseph’s been calling you, hasn’t he.”

It’s not even a question. It’s a thickly laid out statement.

John takes upon an air of self-possession, cleaning the area he’s planning to work on with a damp cloth. He refuses to allow himself to be riled, but his jaw hurts. He can hear the low drag and crunch of molars grinding down on the other. 

Carefully drying the area, he makes movement to his toolbox. To the duct tape. His hand hovers over it, debating.

“Where did you hear that?” John inquires, a facade of poise.

The Deputy’s hair has taken a greasy overtone, locks darker than usual and clumped together. She smells of sweat and the tang of metal, the muggy environment continuing to churn the space into an oppressive hub. His eyes run over her sweat-greased face, the buildup of dirt and neglect making her skin shine in the warm lighting of the room.

Showers are earned, he told her, but she won’t earn them. Every option. Every demand. Every choice is met with a resounding _no._

“Overheard the guards,” Lamb answers, eyes watching him, “he’s even gone to knocking on the bunker door.”

He shudders, squeezing the roll of duct tape.

“You’re lying,” he sneers.

“Am I?”

The rip of duct tape is obnoxiously loud. John purposely keeps his eyes focused on Lamb’s mouth as he tears a piece off with his teeth. He tightly places it over her mouth, running his fingers across the edge.

John is picking at the taped off area on the Deputy’s chest, peeling back the gauze. He lets it bend backward as he pulls his seat close to her side. Turning on the tattoo machine, he moves not towards the jowls, but the blurred horn. With lips twisted, he lets his body hover over the new spot of focus.

He’ll fix it. He will find a way to fix it.

 

**✠✠✠✠✠**

 

**_“All the pain and suffering you spread will not help us in the long run.”_ **

Deputy Lamb is naked and dangling from the shower head, strung up by zip ties. Her toes are grazing the bottom of the shower, gliding in the wet spray. There are thin, red marks digging into her skin where the plastic is cutting through. One of John’s followers is scrubbing soap into her skin, blocking her front. Blocking the, now, larger blowout he has created.

It’s larger. The ink had run in with the former, creating an impression that someone may have accidently spilled and smeared mismanaged ink onto the Deputy’s chest. It’s two fingers thick, now, and uneven in density. Even the skin around it has taken upon an unhealthy reddish hue. 

He doesn’t understand. He tried to fix it. To make the lines darker, to drown out the noticeability of the blowout. 

The Deputy hasn’t commented on the changes. Her feedback remains strangely and uncomfortably absent.

Her defiance, however, is apparent in her deteriorating appearance. She’s grimy to the touch, hair tangled, glued together by grease, and parts of her skin has broken into bright, angry blotches of frayed skin. She left him no choice. He _had_ to, but his stomach clenches in warning. 

He can fix this.

“You have to understand, Eden’s Gate is trying to help you,” John raises his voice over the spray of water. Her head rises, eyes bright and focused, finding him. “We are trying to save you. Save others.”

“Your — your _group_ — is a fine one,” she gasps bitingly, shuddering under the water. John’s tempted to take a step forward, but something keeps him put. “So what’s this. These bunkers. Your _courthouse_?” 

John gives a dispassionate look.

“I don’t think you quite understand the urgency,” he retorts, adding with an accusing finger, “which _you_ caused. You being here — the Lamb of God — is not only a relief, but a curse. We are trying to preserve society — this here — ” He’s touching the wall of the room, patting it, “This _very_ bunker, is to save. Sometimes violence is inevitable. Sometimes to preserve what’s precious, you need to repossess it with violence.” 

The Deputy looks unconvinced, giving a disgruntled noise when John’s follower starts to push shampoo into her hair. 

 “But violence is no stranger to you. You’ve killed. Many times,” John adds.

“To survive.”

“We are no different. We do what we must to _survive,_ ” he drags out the word, finding himself, finally, stepping forward into the small bathroom. He can see the peek of ink just past his follower’s obstructing shoulder. His jaw tightens, turning his eyes elsewhere. “You and your band of revolutionaries not only threaten our goal, but your wrath and _violence_  is destroying everything Joseph —”

The Deputy interrupts with a broken sound, perhaps a laugh. It’s hard to tell, but her lips are upturned, teeth bared. 

“— has built,” John finishes with a frown.

“Why not just kill me, then?”

John stays silent, chewing on his tongue. “You’re important. You have a role to play,” he settles on, inhaling deeply.

_“Bullshit.”_

The follower turns her head back towards John, fingers pausing in her ministration. A silent question is asked. John rolls his eyes, waving a hand in dismissal. She returns to scrubbing the Deputy’s scalp, but judging from the wincing, she’s hardly being kind on the process.

“You were the one that helped move this forward. The one to break one of seals. ‘ _Then I saw a Lamb, looking as if it had been slain, standing at the —_ ’”

“Oh, _come on_ ,” she complains, loudly, “you’re just fitting whatever piece you can find to make sense of your own bullshit. What do you even get out of this?”

He can feel his teeth digging deep into his tongue. His follower is looking back at him, again.

_He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. Don’t do it. Don’t give in —_

John gives a nod and a soaped-up hand rams itself into the Deputy’s gut. A kicked-out grunt leaves her, body recoiling, rising up into itself before the weight of her body stretches her out. Something red pulls from her mouth and is washed under the cold fall of water.

“Absolution,” he licks his lips, pulling his shoulders back, standing straighter.  
  
“Absolution from who? Joseph?” is spat back.

John snarls at that one, baring his own teeth, his retort quick and wounded, “ _No_. God.”

“Keep on with your jokes,” John adds with a sneers, nose scrunching, “you make your jokes because you’re afraid to take this seriously. We all know that when you do, this will matter. All of this will matter.”

“The only joke here is what you’re doing.”

“You understand so little.” God, he feels impossibly warm and wrong. His breath has long ago turned labored, feeling something press against the roof of his mouth. A heavy weight trying to push through — push inward. “All of us are burdened by our sins. Cursed by it. True relief. True courage is when we — ”

“So it _is_ Joseph.”

His follower has stopped, stepping back, leaving the Deputy exposed. She’s waiting. They all are. For him to snap. To kick. To scream. John makes an irritated gesture for his follower to leave, shooting a dangerous look at the Deputy.

“Careful, Lamb,” he warns, softly, waiting for the click of the bathroom door behind them.

“You think your sins, your shitty life doesn’t come directly from _you_? You think you are _cleansed_? _Atoned_? Sure is hard to find absolution when you’re killing the people you should be apologizing to.”

_“Careful,”_ he stresses, quieter.

“Do you even believe this? End of times? Apocalyptic bible camp? Or are you really just doing all of this for his approval?”

John closes his eyes, at the very nadir of his own frustration. _Why am I even listening to her?_

“You have two choices,” he heaves out, shaking in restraint, “you can keep on flapping your ungrateful mouth or you can just say _yes_.”

She’s studying him, writhing in her pinned state, but the zip ties keep her from sliding herself off of the shower head. “You’re a lawyer,” she taunts, “I’m sure you can figure out what I’m going to say.”

Something catches in John’s throat. Taking an unsteady exhale, he gives a tight smile and turns his back to her.

“When you decide to be more agreeable, just give a good shout,” he cajoles as he leaves the Deputy hanging from the shower head, but even his own words sound flat.

 

* * *

 

**Staci Pratt**

  
The alarm goes off at five in the morning, Pratt reaching out with a numb arm to push at the top. His hand falls through the air. Blindly groping for it, he still finds nothing. Cracking an eye open, irritated, he doesn’t find the nightstand next to Jacob’s bed. It’s nowhere nearby. He’s not even in Jacob’s room.

Sitting up, he stares in disjointed confusion at his meager surroundings. 

He’s in his cell. 

Why would he even be in Jacob’s… 

Pratt squints through the gloom, the alarm still incessantly beeping. Frowning, he looks for the source, finding it coming from his watch. Pushing at the side, the sound stops. 

He stays put, mindlessly eyeing his cell. He goes to scratch at his jaw, finding his skin relatively clear of the overgrowth of hair he’s been accruing for the past couple of weeks. Only the morning’s stubble scratches back at his fingers, a soft smile pulling at his lips. 

After dressing, Pratt plops back down on his bed with a grunt and penciled his list for the day: 

Grab today’s shipment schedule

Check the perimeter

Check on Judge

Check the cages

His hand pauses after writing the last bullet point. Mostly Whitetails have been occupying the cages, as of late. Pratt sighs, scratching at his scalp. He draws a slow line underneath it before tucking the pencil behind his ear. 

Breakfast is hasty: a cup of coffee and a slice of toast. He finishes quickly, throwing furtive glances towards the entryway. Jacob hasn’t come down yet. Downing his cup of coffee, he leaves the cafeteria, rounding in on the stairwells. 

His hand curls around the worn railing, a foot on the first step. He stays put, hand sliding up, as if to pull himself onto the next step, but… _Heat of the moment, Staci. You should fucking know that. Know your place._ Pratt’s face twitches, lips pursing together, bunched together on one side. He shakes his head and turns back, making his way out the hospital’s doors. 

The hospital’s grounds are washed in muted pinks and grays by the time Pratt steps out, Jacob’s men dark figures standing like silent soldiers on duty near the gate. The greet him with nothing beyond a nod when he ventures near any of them, eyes carefully watching him. Tolerated.

He checks his list, turning to make a beeline to the kennels and cages for the Judges. 

One of the Judges is stirring in their cage when Pratt approaches, tail beginning a slow thump back and forth on the tarp-covered floor. Staci can’t help but smile as he moves closer. The wolf stretches as Pratt nears, scooting so it can push its nose out of the openings of the cage. 

“ _Hey, boy,_ ” Pratt coos, crouching down.

Ears suddenly perk up, body immediately sitting up, nostrils flaring. 

Pratt goes tense with the change, back stiff. He raises a cautionary hand in peace. 

The Judge lays back down as quickly as they jolted up, wriggling itself onto its back, exposing its belly. It’s head is twisting, looking at something past Staci. Pratt follows its line of sight, finding a pair of legs behind him. An exasperated noise whistles past his teeth when he spies the familiar thigh holster.

He cranes his neck, squinting up, lips pursed, “Do you train all of them to do that?”

Jacob Seed shrugs his shoulders, reaching over him to undo the cage’s latch. Pratt’s breath catches in his throat, a sudden stretching in his throat. 

“It’s not a bad look,” Jacob returns lowly, adding with a ghost of a smile, “might even look good on you, Peaches.”

His cheeks burn, feeling a senseless demand rising in his gut, tightening his muscles. The idea of prostrating himself before Jacob Seed’s feet has blood throbbing noisily in his ears. It doesn’t help that Jacob is taking a slight step forward, now closer, Pratt able to see the outline of a belt buckle through the untucked gray shirt of his. 

He can’t tell if he’s spooked or hopeful, laying a hand on the floor to keep himself upright. 

“Yeah right,” he mumbles, earning a smirk.

Pratt awkwardly pushes himself back to his feet, taking a step back to let the Judge push itself out of the unlocked cage. A cold nose presses into his hand. Pratt, gratefully, busies himself scratching at its snout. 

“You’re up early, Peaches.” 

He’s nodding, pulling the clipboard from where it was pinned and shoved into his armpit. He offers to show it to Jacob,“Wanted to get a head start. Didn’t get much accomplished yet.”

“Hmm,” he’s moving to peer closer at the list, humming to himself, “we’ll finish what’s left together. After, I want to pick up where we left off.”

_Oh._

“On your ranges,” Jacob clarifies, mouth split wide into a grin. It’s such an easy expression — loose, natural, and relaxed. The scars across his forehead disappear in the creases of his forehead, looking more like an old, healing sunburn. Laugh lines crinkle the corner of his eyes and Pratt can’t help but stare. 

It’s nice…but he’s seen this before. 

Not from this Jacob, but from the dream. A younger version, sitting on the curb with two smaller siblings.

“Oh, right,” Pratt trails off, earning a brief look of inquiry, before disappearing — grin and all.

.

.

.

Their annual checks revealed a problem with one the small hothouse in the back. That fragrant vanilla scent of those white buds spills hits him hard when Jacob opened the door. He can’t help but stand there, woozy, trying to wave off the spill of greens and reds fluttering in his vision. 

One of the sprinklers was acting up, leaving a portion of the potted plants uncared for. Usually their handyman would make the fix, but she’s off hunting for the weekend.

Jacob seems unaffected by the flowers, squinting up at the sprinkler. He face looks softer in the soft ripple disturbing his vision, however. That strange surreal spell of what could have been making him sway.

“Pratt, go outside and turn the water on.”

That snaps him out of his reverie. 

Nodding, he shuffles his way out, sucking in lungfuls of clean air. Digging a knuckle into the corner of one of his eyes, he shuffles his way towards the water tank, twisting the valve. He can still taste that sweet scent on his tongue, strange and thick. Pratt drags his tongue against the roof of his mouth to get rid of it before spitting. 

“Alright, turn it off — I see the problem,” Jacob shouts out, Pratt quickly twisting it back. Jacob is already outside of the hothouse, gesturing for Pratt to follow.  “Broken sprinkler head. We need to cut part of the pipe and install a new one,” he explains, Pratt nodding like he understands. 

Whatever softness was there is gone, now.  He follows a few steps behind, digesting. 

“Can I ask you something?” Pratt asks when they make their way to what must be the shed.  

“Go ahead.”

“Do you ever have a dream and it feels real,” he starts, albeit lamely. Jacob looks back at him over his shoulder, a brow arched in question. He turns back to unlock the door, having to tug at the door for it to open. 

Fuck, he knew it was going to sound stupid.

“I’ve been having these dreams lately. Same thing. On loop,” Staci tries again, trying to gauge interest by staring at Jacob’s shoulders. Nothing. “But something different happened a while back. I just can’t…can’t figure out how I would have dreamt it up if it wasn’t…real,” he continues, struggling. 

Jacob hauls out a tool box, sets it out on the side. Half of his frame disappears to pull out a ladder. 

“What did you see?” he grunts.

Staci straightens, surprised he’s being humored. “Oh, I…I went through a door. I — it was to a small building? I can’t…remember what it said,” he starts, stepping back to give Jacob space to walk the ladder out. “You were there — when I got inside. Your brothers, too, but you were all so young — I know this sounds stupid — ”

Jacob sets down the ladder, breathing deeply. “I’m listening,” he cuts through, voice impossibly even, face unreadable. 

Fuck, maybe this was the wrong move. 

“It was…in…” Pratt closes his eyes, thinking. He remembers pulling out one of the letters and mailed advertisement from one of the mailboxes, “ _Georgia!_ I saw the three of you. You were giving money to John for something — ice cream, but you came home late because of it and…” 

Jacob is still devoid of any tells. Any indications he’s onto something or whistling dixie. He can feel himself starting to speed up, words carrying a slur as they run together.

“I’m guessing your dad — father — was not too pleased and… I don’t know where or how I could have dreamt something like that up. Everything felt so real,” he spirals into a defense, shooting a hopeful look at Jacob. 

Fuck, there it is. Jacob’s shoulders are rigid, an uneven but sure line through his military jacket, nearly looking like the beginnings of a hunch. 

“What happened next?” Jacob’s voice cuts through the disastrous line of thought. Quieter. 

Pratt takes a soft intake of air, shoving his hands in his jeans. “Well, he wasn’t happy,” he swallows, watching, “I think…we all thought he would give you the…the brunt of the punishment, but he changed his mind.” Tilting his head back, gritting his teeth, Pratt shakes his head. “I — look, it’s just a dream, it just felt too strange not to share — ”

“How did you open the door?”

He barely caught those words over his rambling. Pratt can feel himself holding his breath, stopping it from leaving his throat, a growing panic building. He didn’t mention the door, yet.

_It was real. It had to be._


	14. Step Into the Garden (Pt. 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"These are the words of him who is the First and the Last, who died and came to life again. I know your afflictions and your poverty—yet you are rich! I know about the slander of those who say they are Jews and are not, but are a synagogue of Satan. Do not be afraid of what you are about to suffer. I tell you, the devil will put some of you in prison to test you, and you will suffer persecution for ten days. Be faithful, even to the point of death, and I will give you life as your victor’s crown."_ \- **Revelations 2:8-10**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating! Enjoy the next installment!

“How did you open the door?”

Jacob Seed’s innocuous question meets Staci’s ears as a strange buzz, words muffled and faraway. He, now, stands at a distance he didn’t know he created, looking at Jacob. Pratt stares through him, eyes lost somewhere on the crudely healed flesh on his forehead. His thoughts slowly slide across his benumbed mind, trying to register — trying to comprehend the implication. The haunting implication that all of those wild dreams were real. At least some of it? It couldn’t be all of it, could it?

That has him taking a shaky breath inward, head shaking slowly. The singular pathway towards the church, the surreal baptisms, and a memory in Georgia — they couldn’t be _completely_ real. Could they?

Even with that thought floating in the forefront of his mind, he still doesn’t understand. The misunderstanding sits in his throat, breathing beginning to pick up. Thoughts beginning to spiral faster, faster, _faster, faster_.

This all has to be something else. Stress? No. Maybe? Is he talking in his sleep? No, how does that make sense? Is he being talked to in his sleep? No. No. The song? The stupid fucking song? Drugs — _the flowers? Bliss!_ The heady scent. The sparks in front of his eyes. Didn’t Jacob say he used it on the Judges? To…cancel out something — _shit_. It _is_ the Bliss.

Pratt’s already latching onto the idea, his shaking head turning into jerky nods, thoughts scurrying.

It has to be that. It _needs_ to be. That’s the only logical explanation: he’s been drugged. He’s been spending too much time surrounded by those flowers —

_“Pratt?”_

Staci blinks, refocusing on Jacob, face unreadable. His knuckles give him away, a blanched white where Jacob is gripping the ladder, shoulders stiff.

“How did you open the door?” Jacob repeats.

“I…” he stalls, trying to gather his thoughts. “There was a window in the room. I climbed out and climbed back into the house through another window,” his voice sounds small to his own ears, carefully watching Jacob, “I…I opened the door from the other side.” He sucks the air noisily and holds it in his mouth when finished.

Jacob appears to mull over his words before snorting through his nostrils, giving a nod in approval. “Smart thinking,” Jacob compliments, simple and matter-of-fact. His shoulders have yet to relax, betraying the easy response. He jerks his head in the direction of the sitting toolbox, motioning for Pratt to pick it up, “We still got work to do.”

Just like that, he’s walking. Walking back to the hothouse. Conversation over.

Pratt’s mouth is left in a misshapen ‘ _o’_ , a surprised sound stuttering out of his throat. The sound morphs into something higher in pitch, grimacing, hands beginning to clench.

“Smart thinking?!” Pratt parrots back, voice cracking. He shoots an affronted look at Jacob’s shoulder, lips thin, eyebrows raised.

Nothing.

Jacob is still walking, conversation at an unfulfilled close.

_“Smart thinking!?_ ” Again, but louder, enough to get Jacob to stop. He throws a warning look over his shoulder that is ignored.

A shaky laugh leaves Pratt as he walks towards Jacob, moving too quick for his own good, head spinning. _“What the fuck is going on?!”_ he near shouts, but it falters into an angry hiss when Jacob’s brows pinch together. Pratt huffs, annoyed, but gives out a begrudging, “ _Sorry_.”

Pratt moves a hand up in the air, a strange call for peace, but it’s less for Jacob and more for him.

“You can’t just tell me good job and walk away!” he tries, again, attempting to control his fluctuating volume. “Am…how is that even possible?! How the fuck would you even **_know_** what I…” his mouth is working faster than his thoughts, stumbling over his words. He can’t help it. He can hear his voice rising, fighting the urge to turn his head around to see if he’s caught anyone attention.

_Fuck._ Whatever else there was left to be said is unreachable and lost. _Fuck. Fuck._ He had more. Pratt ends on a drawn out groan, digging a knuckle into one of his eyes. He lets his world swirl in diluted purples before dropping his hand, eyes finding Jacob.

Jacob remains unchanged. Quiet. Face difficult to decipher.That sets his teeth on edge, pressing another knuckle in the corner of his eye — deeper, this time. Enough to start a dull ache behind his left eye.

“Was…was I high!? Drugged up?!” he exclaims, winded.

“No.”

Pratt chokes, looking surprised. God, he’s going to be sick. _That_ was his safest explanation. He wanted — _needed_ — Jacob to admit that the food or the water here was laced with Bliss.

“Am I dead?” he asks, pathetically.

“No, Staci,” his first name falling off strangely from his tongue, “you are not dead.”

“But that was real, _right_?” Staci interrupts, wiping a hand through his, now, sweaty locks. “That was — ”

“A memory,” Jacob confirms.

The collar of his shirt feels too tight around his throat and Pratt gives it a harsh tug. He’s waiting for Jacob to grin to…call this a farce, but he remains unmoved.

Clearing his throat, moving his hands so they are laced behind the back of his head, he tries to breathe deeply. He walks aimlessly in small circles, trying to gather his thoughts over the pounding of his blood in his ears. He doesn’t understand. He…he has to be dead. The helicopter crashed and he didn’t make it…

_No, no_ , that doesn’t make sense.

“How?” is all he can manage to croak out. He refuses to look at Jacob, continuing to move and move and move, trying to stay out of the maddening spiral in his head gaining momentum.

_Don’t cry. Don’t cry. God, don’t you dare cry, Pratt._

Pratt tilts his head up, taking a long inhale through his nostrils. 

A careful sigh registers in Pratt’s ear, followed by the metallic creak of the ladder being set down.

“We don’t need to have this conversation right now,” Jacob offers, encourages even.

That stops Pratt, shooting Jacob an incredulous look.

“Yes,” Pratt finds his voice, hoarse, but _strong_ , “yes, we _fucking_ do, because I’m…” He tosses a hand uselessly up in the air, voice rising with frustration, “ _I’m going batshit over here_. How does anything you’re saying make what I’m seeing real?”

“It’s complicated,” he iterates with finality, rising from his feet, hoisting the ladder back up, “pick up the toolbox, Pratt.”

“Fuck you,” comes hurtling out of his mouth before he can stop it.

_Oh._

Now, Jacob’s watching him. A slow step is taken forward and that kicks the air out of Pratt.

“Excuse me?” quietly leaves his mouth and Pratt can’t help but take a step back.

He can feel his own mouth give a funny twitch. He can’t quite make eye contact with Jacob, too busy looking everywhere about him with a growing franticness. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gives an abrupt shake of the head.

“No,” he declares, daring to open his eyes and meet Jacob’s, “you heard me: _fuck you_. How is it more complicated than all of this?” His arm jerks backward, haphazardly gesturing to the hospital behind them. 

Jacob only works his jaw in response before sighing.

“This is different,” he obscurely settles on, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t condemn. Lecture. Leave. Jacob stays put, mouth an almost downward, resigned slope.

Something in Pratt’s throat unclenches, feeling the anger wilt his tightened fist and pinched brows. His next exhale is shaky and wet, heading upturned, “Do you want to know who I called that night? On the phone?” He doesn’t bother to wait for Jacob’s response. “I called my mom,” he continues, words soft, “I…thought about trying to tell her everything. I didn’t. No…I…” He lets his eyes close, trying to talk through the lump expanding in the back of his mouth. His words feel thick falling off his numbing tongue, swollen and stupid as he tries to push out the next words.“I, uh, said something else. I said something that would…make sure she doesn’t look for me.”

“I said stupid shit over the phone,” his voice pitches in volume,” for her. _That_ was complicated.”

Pratt dares a glance, but he can’t make out Jacob. He’s a blurred shape and he refuses to wipe at his face.

“Whatever this is, I can handle,” Pratt grits out.

Jacob is shifting in his vision. His head must be slightly downcast — staring at his feet, maybe — because he can’t see the smudged outline of his face. “I know you can, Staci, but sometimes ignorance is the wiser choice,” Jacob returns, but it has long ago lost its unyielding nature. There is a give to his words that has Pratt taking a blind step closer, seeing opportunity.

“You can’t make that choice for me,” he exclaims.

“I suppose not,” Jacob admits, voice faraway.

Pratt, finally, rubs at his eyes before dragging his forearm underneath his nose. Jacob is visible, now. Tired and shoulders at a sag, he sets the ladder down and sits on its side. He idly scratches at his brow before folding his hands together, thinking.

“Have you ever wondered why it’s been months and no one has taken notice of Hope County going radio silent?” Jacob starts, the calm cadence of his voice cutting through distending silence. Pratt awkwardly remains standing, crossing his arms and shoving his hands underneath his armpits.

“Or that the roads are all destroyed and, yet, not reported to our neighboring counties? That there has, always, been something strange even _before_ you came in with the Marshall?” Jacob continues.

Pratt shifts nervously, scrunching his face together as his words sink. “You — you said it’s…I dunno, I thought you said John…does the….” Pratt shakes his head, trying to find the word, “interference, I guess, with the other counties or people getting…curious.”

Jacob nods carefully, folded hands tightening their grip on the other, “Yes, but not in the way you think.”

Pratt’s already shaking his head, turning away, feeling his stomach give a disturbing flip. _No, no, no_ , he doesn’t like this. _Nope._

“It’s better if I show you, but, Pratt, you don’t have to do this,” Jacob interrupts his internal rant.

_Fuck._

“I…okay. No, I…” Pratt rubs angrily at the side of his head, turning back to him, “I want to know. I — show me, I guess.”

Jacob stares somberly up at him before a ghost of a smirk tugs on a side of his mouth. “You’re a pain in my ass, aren’t you?” slips past his lips before he’s shaking the statement away with a wave of his hand.

_“Wake up, Pratt.”_

A queer look flashes on Pratt’s face at the command. Opening his mouth to comment, the words fail to form. Something in his knees suddenly gives and his world immediately goes dark.

.

.

.

.

Staci’s eyes open, jumping back, his shoulder knocking into something hard. His head snaps to his left, staring at the Hope County Sheriff’s helicopter. It’s the same as all his other dreams, but this one is different…? The controls are missing, the buttons and switches shaved off, only leaving a smooth panel of steel. Unique details have all been erased, only leaving a rudimentary version of the helicopter. Even the lighting is strange. Gone was the dim surroundings, instead the world casted in a lighter shade of gray.

Joseph Seed’s complex remained, it’s cheaply-made buildings standing menacingly in the void —

Pratt gasps, shuffling a few steps away from the helicopter to stare at the empty stretch of _nothing_ surrounding the complex _._ A dark horizon greets him on all sides, the only thing reminiscent to normalcy being the exterior of the complex and a few hovering trees off near the chapel.

It was a stage after hours, revealing the simplicity of the hollowed sets when the lights are on.

“I don’t understand,” he hisses out, unsettled. He’s already pinching at his arm, trying to wake up.

**_PICK A DOOR,_** streaks out in bright light on the floor underneath him. Pratt jumps at it, looking about him, searching.

“Is this you?!” he calls out.

No response and if that isn’t damning enough. Pratt swears under his breath. _It fucking must be. All this time_. A wave of nausea has him doubling over, feeling saliva pool around his molars in preparation. _No, no,_ he’s not ready to dig into that problem. _Not yet._ Sucking the spit back into his throat, he forces himself to stand up straight.

**_PICK A DOOR._ **   
****

Pratt takes a few breaths before kicking himself to move forward, towards the cluster of buildings behind the archway leading deeper into the complex. The one he entered in before — the one in Georgia — is still gone. The other entrances are, now, open. However, Pratt spies a few smaller buildings in the back, doors missing or boarded up.  
 ****

**_PICK A DOOR._ **

“I hear you,” he grouses, eyeing each entrance to these different buildings like they might bite. Fuck, if this makes a lick of sense. He’s not sure how — he’s praying for the possibility this is still in the realm of mind-altering drugs. A pill. A shot. Bad water?  
 ****

The path is clear — three main doorways are visibly available to him. He carefully walks toward each one, trying to guess what might be inside by looking at its frame. There Pratt catches sight of another building with a door, tucked behind the one before him…

“I’m picking my door, okay?” he huffs out, sounding annoyed despite the cold pour of fear coursing through his veins.

Pratt squeezes through the small space between the buildings, pushing himself further off the path. He swears he feels the building on his right start to push inward, as if to cut him off or pin him to the neighboring building, but he can’t prove it. He lets his hand drag against its surface. Just in case.

_ACEDIA_ is etched above the doorway, the paint slowly shifting into wet streaks. _SMYRNA_ slowly is spelled out. He wishes he remembered what was scrawled on the building that held Georgia. It was a different word… A city, he thinks… Not like he can make any heads or tails of what this could possibly mean.

“Do I go in?” he asks, throwing his head up, staring at an empty sky.

Silence answers back.

_Of course._

Pratt sighs and grabs at the door handle, giving it cautious twist, before pulling open.

  
**✠✠✠✠✠**  


 

Hot air hits Pratt, squinting in the harshness of bright light. He holds a hand over his eyes, opening his eyes partially. Dirt. He’s standing on a long stretch of untamed dirt, gnarled, dried weeds sprouting out. It takes him a moment before he can open his eyes fully. Jutting rocks twenty to thirty feet rise up from his left. Mounds and hills of blanched, gold-colored dirt stretches before him before sloping down into an endless stretch of flatlands.

This can’t be Montana. Not Georgia, either…

Pratt turns around, trying to find something — anything. A marker. A sign. He’s not even sure he can spy a road.

_“…understand the magic that you doooooo….”_ a voice cuts through, far off, but not too far. There is a response to the thrown out voice, but Pratt can’t make it out. He stays put, head cocked, trying to figure out the direction.

_“…dream come true…”_ Closer, towards the rocks.

Pratt moves forward, aware of the sweat beginning to start and soak into the armpits of his shirt.

He can hear the singing, off pitch, colored with laughter.

_“Onnllly yooouuuuuuuuuu…”_

Pratt comes to an unsteady halt when he recognizes the lyrics. It’s the song. The one that once played in Jacob’s office. The one sung in his ear when he panicked at the cages…

Pratt stays put, tongue pinned between his teeth. The internal debate ends when he sees a muddy brown and tan fatigues pop around the corner.

Two figures carrying rifles shuffle through. One is bulkier than the other, helmet wedged on, goggles unused and strapped around it. The bulkier of the two has what looks like headphones on the wrong way, the plastic band hanging just underneath the chin. The leaner of the two is a few steps ahead, twisting his head to huff out something Pratt can’t catch —

“ _My one and onlyyyy yoooooooouuuuu,” th_ e larger of the two belts out, teeth bright in the desert landscape, _“_ fuck off, I’m good.”

Pratt moves closer, trying to get a better look of their faces. He can see the emblazoned U.S. flag on their shoulder and unit’s patch. U.S. Army. Airborne — same patch as Jacob’s jacket. Pratt makes a startled noise when he spies a familiar nose from the leaner of the two. Even though the facial hair is nonexistent, Jacob is, still, unmissable with those too-bright-blue eyes, familiar swell of his nose, and ears. He looks young — very young. Younger than him…

“Does your mom know you sing like shit?” younger Jacob is grumbling out, eyeing one of the rising cliffs. His partner is shaking his head with the music, mouthing out the lyrics, ignoring Jacob. It earns him a withering look, but it’s temporary. Easily splits into something lighter, lips pulled in a smile.

Pratt catches himself smiling. It wilts, gradually replaced with an uncomfortable twist in his gut that he may be intruding. Maybe he should pick another door…

He spins on his heels, looking for the door. It’s gone. Pratt purses his lips, nearly pulling them into his mouth, as he turns back around.

Jacob is busy rolling his eyes and tilting his wrist up towards him, revealing a watch. He glances at it before pointing up at rocky rise to their left. That earns a nod from his partner, adjusting something on his waistband — a cassette player, it looks like.

_Fuck._ He must be far back. He doesn’t even think he’s in the states anymore — somewhere overseas, maybe? 

The two move towards the smaller cluster of rocks, carefully moving up one of its sloped side. Pratt has to jog to catch up, scrambling after them. Something strange hits his noise midway up — hot, acrid, and smokey. Pratt can’t help but scrunch his nose, moving a hand up to cover it. The others must have caught the scent, too, because Jacob’s partner is briefly pausing.

“Ten bucks it’s the oil field we passed yesterday,” he’s saying.

“Smells like it,” Jacob mumbles, casting a worrying look over his shoulder. Pratt can’t see the face his partner is making, but something in it has Jacob nodding, slightly reassured. “Ten bucks you can’t hit a single note on the next song,” Jacob lamely interjects as they reach the top.

His partner scoffs, lips flapping, sardonically slinging back, “Real original, _Rookie_.”

“Fuck off, Miller.”

The two settle on the top, carefully sitting down, legs not quite hanging over the edge. The one called Miller comfortably places himself close to Jacob. Miller’s hands are busy supporting himself from behind as he leans back, one arm behind Jacob. Jacob turns his head, discussing something about a MREs. He eventually leans back himself, back brushing against Miller’s stretched out arm.

Grimacing, Pratt turns to look elsewhere. Anywhere. Behind him.

_Ah. A camp._

He can see it, now. Small, brown tents laid out in neat rows, covered from immediate view by the uneven terrain of…wherever they are. The two must be off duty, making sure not to stray too far off from home base.  


“— heard he’s writing to forty people,” Jacob is continuing. 

“Hey, whatever it takes to get some free shit and pass the time. Not like we’re seeing much of anything anyways.”

“Yeah, I got —

**_.̵.̵.̵.̷.̵.̷;̶'̷;̷'̷\̸y̵̨̛̝̮̱̞̳̗̩̹͔̜̪͇͕̮̤͚̲͔̹͖͈̣̞̲̞̘͇̦̤̮͙͛̈́̂͗̔͆̿̈̈́̏̏̈̽̽̈͒̆̄̕ǫ̶̧̺͕̖̲̰̼̣̲̣̤̠̫͉͍̮̐͜ͅu]̴.̴.̶.̷/̴/̶/̴/̶.̸.̷_ **

_“— fuck?!”_  
  
Sudden. Sharp. Bright. A loud, piercing noise cuts through, falling into a high-pitched ringing in one ear. Both Jacob and Pratt are shoving their fingers into their ears, bodies pulling itself in, trying to make itself small. It’s getting louder. _Louder_. **_LOUDER_**. Pratt is trying to push his fingers deeper, struggling to keep his eyes open. He can see, more than hear, Jacob talking over the noise, openly scowling. 

Miller is shoving his headphones off, staring quizzically at Jacob. He has his hands on his face, cupping it, trying to get a better look at him. His mouth is moving, but Pratt can’t hear. He just watches Miller reach for his pack and pull out a canteen from the side, hastily unscrewing it.

Slowly the sound fades, dying into the familiar, but surreal sound of ear cells dying in his ear. A soft, tolerable whine.

“Drink. Good,” Miller’s voice is coaching, a hand touching Jacob’s forehead. “You okay?”

“Yeah…yeah, I’m just… Migraine, or something,” comes an unconvincing mumble, cradling his own head.

“Bullshit, we need to head back,” Miller insists, already starting to make his way up, headphones dragging against the dirt. “Come on. Let’s get out of the sun. We fucked around long enough anyways.”

Jacob is just frowning, but he’s looking at something to his right, squinting. “What…” he starts, voice too loud, carrying an echo. Jacob jumps at something unseen, dragging himself across the dirt for a couple of feet. Miller quickly reprimands with a hiss, shaking Jacob’s shoulder hard.

“Hey!” Miller barks, earning Jacob’s immediate attention, “stop fucking around. We’re heading back. Now.”

Jacob isn’t quite moving, sluggishly blinking in the sun at whatever is next to him. The color has already drained from his flushed and sunburnt skin, sweat collecting on his brows and the ridge of his nose. Miller gives an exasperated noise, fingers latching on the back of Jacob’s collar, as if ready to drag him back down.

**_ő̶̡̡͚͖͖̙̖̥͉̙̭̩̬̺̼̯̗͖͕͚̥̭̥̥̥̪͚̯̮͎̭̲͈͓̯̗͈͂̍̓͋́̀̓̈́͆͆̄͆̌̓̌̔̚͘͜ͅn̸͇͈̳̗͍̘̘̮̰͈͆͑̿̾͂̀̆̓̅̔̅͒́̎̐̽̒̑̾̉͝.̵.̵.̵.̷.̵.̷;̶'̷;̷'̷\̸y̵̨̛̝̮̱̞̳̗̩̹͔̜̪͇͕̮̤͚̲͔̹͖͈̣̞̲̞̘͇̦̤̮͙͛̈́̂͗̔͆̿̈̈́̏̏̈̽̽̈͒̆̄̕ǫ̶̧̺͕̖̲̰̼̣̲̣̤̠̫͉͍̮̐͜ͅu]̴.̴.̶.̷/̴/̶/̴/̶.̸.̷_ **

Jacob folds into himself, again, slapping his hands over his ears. Pratt thinks he sees something strange in Jacob’s shadow — suddenly too large and disfigured. The noise warps, sounding more like sharp metal dragging across metal. Pratt goes down, lands hard on his knees. _Hurt_ starts to swell in his ears, something wet beginning to uncomfortably seep out, squeezing his own eyes shut. 

“Jacob! Jacob! Listen to me, we are going _now!”_ a voice is faintly filtering through the chaotic screeching of metal, “Jacob! Asshole, there are cars! I see — _fuck it_.”

The sound comes to an abrupt end, Pratt opening his eyes just in time to see Miller hauling Jacob over his shoulders and making an unsteady jog down. Jacob is barely hanging on, limp, and impossibly heavy with his gear.

Pratt breathes heavily, watching them in a daze. His knees feel strange, aching and burning in the hot dirt.

_Was that it? Was that what Jacob was talking about?_ His thoughts produce, caught in a disorienting haze. It still doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t _get_ it.

Pratt pushes himself onto his feet to feel the earth tilt underneath him. He wobbles, arms stretched out, trying to stay balanced. Everything is changing around him, his environment thrown on a treadmill and being violently forced to go left. Dirt and rocks are whipping past and Pratt feels himself thrown onto his backside, groping and grabbing at anything he can hold onto. He sees blurred figures moving thorough — too indistinguishable from the sheer speed for him to make out.

“J-Jacob!” he hollers, finding hold on _something._ He can’t see what it might be, dirt kicked up in thick clouds in this fast forward exodus. “This — doesn’t make any fucking sense,” he throws out, more to keep himself distracted from the surmounting panic welling up around his eyes.

He’s done. He wants out. Pratt opens his mouth, to tap out, but nothing comes out save for a tight wheeze.

As if listened to, the world comes to a slow halt.A new backdrop has been erected, tents riddled with bullet holes. People in fatigues are racing around, knees sliding in the dirt, using parked humvees and boxes of supplies as cover. Rifles and sidearms are out — there is the flash. The missable and quick to miss show of bullets leaving — firearms being fired — are muted. Silenced.

Pratt can’t see Jacob. Carefully standing up, staring accusingly at the loudness of his own shoes scratching the dirt, he moves hesitantly. People are moving past him — through him — as Pratt shuffles closer, hugging the tents. He still can’t see Jacob or a door — some way out.

He slips through one, spying rows and rows of bunks. Empty. No door. Pratt leaves —

It’s darker? He’s been fast forwarded into another section of this memory, the what may have transpired seen more in the state of the camp. The camp is cast in a becoming evening glow, casted in pinks and rich yellows. Tents have either been shredded in a long firefight or completely torn down, what was once underneath odd bumps through fabric. A humvee is dipped down to its right side, tires punctured. Pratt can’t see the other humvees… He doesn’t see the rushing soldiers. He doesn’t see much of anything.

“Jacob?” Pratt calls out, seeing a figure on its knees a ways off, hunched over someone. What may be Jacob doesn’t respond, but something old and strange answers his call instead.

He watches something empty slowly occupy the space next to the hunched figure. Marsh lights for eyes turn up at him, a cheek with embers glowing within — He feels himself stumble back, a bright burn catching in his lungs. His breath comes in short, body seizing and trying to recall how to breathe. He’s seen this — _fuck,_ he’s seen this before. Pratt racks his brain, trying to think.

_Fuck, fuck,_ he’s seen this!

It comes to him quickly as the shape grows, body hulking, devoid of flesh. What keeps it upright and whole is more a collection of bones — odd ends of fragments and disconnecting parts forced to align. He knows it. It’s the same strangeness he caught a glance of during Jacob’s makeshift baptism. What he thought, at first, was a strange trick of the eyes or a bad dream.

It stares at him and opens its mouth:

_“Yo̷̞̖͛u s̶ho̵ul̸d̵n̶’t̸ ̵be̶ h̴er̴e.”_


	15. Step Into the Garden (Pt. 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Do not be afraid of what you are about to suffer. I tell you, the devil will put some of you in prison to test you, and you will suffer persecution for ten days. Be faithful, even to the point of death, and I will give you life as your victor’s crown... The one who is victorious will not be hurt at all by the second death."_ \- **Revelations 2:10-11**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  **A/N:** Apologies for the incredible delay! Thank you for sticking around. Please enjoy this lengthy chapter as we get back in swing! Thank you!

**Jacob Seed**

 

Dust, sweat, and the far off rank of oil burning settles into his pores and lungs. Dirt and loose rocks skitter in front of his feet noiselessly, kicked up as he slides and stumbles his way down. All he can hear is the exhausted heave and hiss of his own breath, heart thudding against the walls of his chest. Someone is holding him up, guiding his tired, plodding feet forward. 

Miller.

Miller, who is warm, solid weight next to him. Miller with his scratchy voice pushing into his ear — “ _stay with me_ ” —and his name falling off his tongue. 

_Jacob. Jacob. Jacob. Jacob._

That old, familiar snag of _something_ pulls viciously at the back of his throat. It takes root there. Swelling. He looks elsewhere, watching rough terrain bob in front of him with each graceless step. It’s not the same. Not the same gut wrenching pain. After a while, even this…even _Miller_ loses its scalpel edge.  
  
That stirs a great heave of air, listening to it rattle out of his constricting throat on exhale.

_Jacob. Jacob. Jacob._

Pain pricks at the corner of his eyes, but the tears don’t form — _can’t_ form. It’s not in the script. 

It’s strange the way his mind and body moves in secret from his consciousness. _Your knees give._ His knees buckle, grappling for purchase on Miller. _Your head is splitting in two._ His skull throbs in phantasmic pain on cue, wincing, rubbing at his temple. Consciously, he knows all of this is but memory, but this time — no, this time, _again —_ he’s both participant and spectator. 

_Fucking Staci Pratt._

Out of all the doors. Out of all the laid out possibilities, Pratt picked this one. 

He’d laugh if he could. 

_Fucking Pratt — .̵;̶'̷;̷'̷\̸y̵̨̛̝̮̱̞̳̗̩̹͔̜̪͇͕̮̤͚̲͔̹͖͈̣̞̲̞̘͇̦̤̮͙͛̈́̂͗̔͆̿̈̈́̏̏̈̽̽̈͒̆̄̕ǫ̶̧̺͕̖̲̰̼̣̲̣̤̠̫͉͍̮̐͜ͅu]̴.̴.̶.̷/  
_

A high-pitched warble, sharp and metallic, sends his fingers digging into his scalp. His world gives a strange pitch backward — flailing — vision suddenly blanched in pale yellows and pinks. He’s tipping, tipping, the air shuddering, light refracting, bending, tipping, eyes rolling into the back of his — 

A hand pushes on the middle of his back, pushing him back.

Miller keeps him upright, leading him forward. 

The noise ebbs into the backdrop of his mind, colors returning. Camp is closer. Miller is closer, tanned face and the shadow of facial hair near grazing his nose. This morning’s shower still clings to his neck, a faux spruce scent pushing through the sweat and fear. 

_Oh._

He forgot that scent — didn’t _realize_ he forgot it. Jacob feels his throat tighten, breath coming out unsteady. He tries to close his eyes, but something unseen pulls. It _pulls, pulls, pulls,_ ** _yanks_** at his eyelashes, forcing his eyes open. A monotone voice reminds him his blocking: eyes open, act terrified as you enter the tent.

_Jacob. Jacob. Jacob. Jacob —I need you to focus. You with me?_

Calloused hands are gripping his cheeks, tilting his head upright. Something like a bottle is pressed against his mouth and water slides down in his throat. The sensation tickles, nearly spitting the water out.   
  
_Shh, shh, you’re okay. Focus._

Jacob feels his head nod, dull and listless. His feet are moving without thought, a hand groping at the front of his person for his rifle. Quickly check cartridge. Flip off the safety. 

“No, stay here,” Miller is pushing at his chest, Jacob’s hand, gratefully, swings up, falling on top of his. They stay put, hands over the other. _God_ , Miller feels terrifyingly real.  
  
“Hey, Jacob — no, stay here,” fingers snap in front of his face and he blinks stupidly back. He needs to grip the hand underneath his. Needs to hold on 

 _ő̶̡̡͚͖͖̙̖̥͉̙̭̩̬̺̼̯̗͖͕͚̥̭̥̥̥̪͚̯̮͎̭̲͈͓̯̗͈͂̍̓͋́̀̓̈́͆͆̄͆̌̓̌̔̚͘͜ͅn̸͇͈̳̗͍̘̘̮̰͈͆͑̿̾͂̀̆̓̅̔̅͒́̎̐̽̒̑̾̉͝.̵.̵.̵.̷.̵.̷;̶'̷;̷'̷y̵̨̛̝̮̱̞̳̗̩̹͔̜̪͇͕̮̤͚̲͔̹͖͈̣̞̲̞̘͇̦̤̮͙͛̈́̂͗̔͆̿̈̈́̏̏̈̽̽̈͒̆̄̕ǫ̶̧̺͕̖̲̰̼̣̲̣̤̠̫͉͍̮̐͜ͅu]̴.̴.̶.̷/̴/̶_  
  
Metal brusquely tears against metal. The sound rings bright in his ears and he lets go. He burrows his knuckles into his brows, hissing, gnashing his teeth.

Miller gives a firm push and he’s stumbling bonelessly back into a cot, watching him leave the tent. His mouth is moving, forming words, but nothing manages to come out. His tongue feels like cotton: thick, useless, and dry.

His legs won’t move. Shoulders will not budge. He’s forced to stay put, cradling his head, gun heavy on his lap. Did he actually stay like this!? Why?! He can’t… The sound of rounds being fired swells around him, but he won’t move. _Can’t_ move. Didn’t move then and will not move now. 

_Coward._

He chews on his tongue, waiting.

_You could have pushed through._

Gunshots are few and in-between, still waiting.

Unintelligible and warped shouting rises somewhere from the far right. A vehicle is being moved, tires crunching on dirt. He remains put, waiting.

_Weak._

Jacob closes his eyes, taking an unsteady inhale of air. 

_Finally_ , it gives. The restraints fall and Jacob is fumbling for his rifle, making an ungainly sprint forward. He shoves himself through the tent’s flaps, thrown into a haze of rose-colored dust. It thickly swirls and overwhelms, the campsite devolving into strange blurs and shadows trapped further in.

It’s quiet.

Coughing, laying an unmarked hand over his mouth, he squints through the dust. There are bodies spread about, a tent deflated, but they’re blurred and indistinguishable. His feet keep him from moving closer, set on a predetermined path. 

“Miller?” he chokes out. Something else — _someone else_. One of his squad mates? —is moving towards him, but his head won’t quite turn towards them. He’s being pushed to the right. Away. 

_“Miller?!”_ louder, nervous. 

A ragged cough cuts through the silence. Jacob stiffens, searching. He breaks into a run. 

This isn’t real. Nothing but phantasmic memories, but his breathing is erratic, an old panic holding him again. It’s Miller. Rushing at a body coming to view, he falls too hard on his knees when he approaches, rifle hitting his gut hard. Haphazardly removing his rifle, he gropes at Miller’s skull, futility looking for an injury. 

A spot near Miller’s gut is dark and discolored, blood dribbling out from broken skin and uniform. Instinctually, he places his hand over it. Miller groans, face suddenly moving, lips twisting into a grimace. He can feel the warm kiss of blood against the palm of his hand. Jacob applies more pressure. 

_Think. Think. Think._ Jacob swivels his head around, ears beginning to ring. He catches sight of the other shape, but his eyes won’t settle. He, suddenly, reaches underneath Miller, blindly feeling for the first aid kit attached to his back. He yanks hard until it gives, trying to open it with one hand. His fingers fumble with the strap, a frustrated sound filling his throat. His fingers won’t fucking open the— 

“Jacob.”

Miller gives a wheezed inhale, a hand patting him on the elbow.

_“Breathe.”_

Jacob nods, taking a shaky inhale. The pack opens and he grabs for the gauze, pulling it apart with his teeth. He moves his hand away from the wound — 

_“Fuck,”_ he swears under his breath. Blood bubbles out, coming out in a tired gush when Miller exhales. He hastily shoves the gauze in the wound, packing it in. The gauze, quickly, turns red, darkening as it the material soaks in Miller. He shoves more gauze in, earning a pained cry from Miller. His hands pause, surprised, before he’s pushing it down.

“How it look?” Miller asks, voice cracked with pain. 

Jacob gives a look that has Miller’s face falling. 

“Okay,” he begins, voice strange, “you listen to me, Jacob — ”

“Shut up,” Jacob hisses, staring at the red continuing to spread across Miller’s uniform. Shakily, he reaches for the roll of gauze, using his teeth to pull out to a long strip, mouth sloppily moving to tear it out. His hands won’t stop shaking as he folds the gauze against his arm into thick squares. He quickly moves his hand to press down the clean gauze before reapplying pressure.   
  
Fuck, he doesn’t…is he even doing this right?

He needs help — someone else _has_ to be here. 

“ _HEY!”_ he shouts out, turning to look at the camp. “ _WE NEED MED SUPPORT HERE!_ ” he bellows.

Nothing. 

**_“HEY!”_ **

_.̴.̶.̷/̴/̶y̵̨̛̝̮̱̞̳̗̩̹͔̜̪͇͕̮̤͚̲͔̹͖͈̣̞̲̞̘͇̦̤̮͙͛̈́̂͗̔͆̿̈̈́̏̏̈̽̽̈͒̆̄̕ǫ̶̧̺͕̖̲̰̼̣̲̣̤̠̫͉͍̮̐͜ͅu]̴.̴.̶.̷/̴/̶_

Jacob resists the urge to pull both hands to his ears. He grits his teeth, pulling his chin into his chest as the sound clubs against the interior of his skull.

**_“N̷o o̸n̷e ̴i̵s̷ h̸e̶r̴e̸, Ja̵c̷o̴b. J̷u̷s̴t̵ yo̶u̴,”_** a voice, dry and slithery, replaces the ringing in his head. 

Standing next to him, looming in the thick swirl of dust, was a shadow darker than the blood pumping out of Miller. It stands with marsh lights burning where one expects eyes and in the open areas of what may be cheeks. It’s vaguely humanoid, but its arms are too long for its body, limbs the collection of bits and pieces of bone. A warm stench of blood and death rolls off of it.

Jacob stares, frozen.

**_“O̶n̸l̷y̷ y̷o̴u̵, u̸n̷l̷e̴s̴s̵ s̷om̴e̵th̵i̵n̶g̵ is̶ d̵on̵e…”_ **

Miller coughs on macabre cue, red spittle falling on his lips. The spell is broken, Jacob moving, carefully turning Miller so he’s on his side. He wipes the sweat off his brows with the back of his hand. He risks a glance — it’s still there. Too close, the fetid stench wafting off of it near nauseating. 

It’s the heat. The headache. The stress. It’s anything, but — 

**_“Y̶ou̵ j̵u̵st̵ n̶e̸e̵d̶ t̶o m̵a̵k̷e̴ y̶o̵u̵r̷ s̵a̶c̷r̴i̶f̴i̵c̵e̶.”_ **

Jacob turns back to the pack, desperately trying to ignore. He’s searching for something to help, but his vision blurs. He wipes his hand over his face, again. 

**_“Yo̷̞̖͛u s̶ho̵ul̸d̵n̶’t̸ ̵be̶ h̴er̴e,”_** its voice slides out, but not to Jacob, this time. To someone else. 

His head jerks up, turning. He can see, now, who has been lurking in his peripherals. 

_Staci Pratt._

It knocks him loose, a hand breaking from the script, moving off of Miller. The panic, briefly, going mute. Staci is wide-eyed and looks terrified, hands raised up in a show of surrender. His feet are doing a miraculous thing: they’re slowly shuffling forward. He can see the tremble in his shoulders. The drain of blood from his cheeks, but he’s moving forward. Towards him. 

A choked noise pulls him back down — _fuck._ Miller’s lips are glossed red, the front of his uniform slick with the same color. His hands fly back to Miller’s wound, pressing down. His eyes are closed, breath short and irregular. _Fuck.  
_

How easy he’s knocked back in.

“Hey,” Jacob calls out to Miller. “ _Hey!”_ Louder, pressing a bit harder on the wound for a reaction. Miller just gives a raspy exhale, long and final. 

Jacob’s blood runs cold, holding his breath. 

He takes a painful gulp of air, tossing his head up, not hearing the quiver in his own voice, “ ** _Yes! Just do it._** ”  


_Good. Again._  
.  
.  
.  
  
Dust, sweat, and the far off rank of oil burning settles into his pores and lungs. Dirt and loose rocks skitter in front of his feet noiselessly, kicked up as he slides and stumbles his way down…

** ✠✠✠✠✠ **

**Staci Pratt**

**_“Yo̷̞̖͛u s̶ho̵ul̸d̵n̶’t̸ ̵be̶ h̴er̴e, little Lamb.”_**  
  
The temperature continues to rise, a heatwave washing over him. He can feel himself boil. Fuck, it’s hard to look at the thing before him, let alone stomach the scent. His hands shudder their way up towards his face, pacifying, pressing the back of his hand against his nose. Pratt’s next inhale is the sweat on the back of his hand, a small relief.  
  
_It_ peers down at him, knowingly. Pratt quickly looks away, towards Jacob, towards another memory. His face is as young as his own, twisted into an expression he’s…never seen. It leaves him uncomfortable. Guilty.  
  
_Don’t forget, you asked to be here,_ hid mind cruelly reminds.  
  
“I know that,” Pratt replies, not realizing he’s spoken the words out loud or to what he’s responding to. He casts a nervous glance up at the creature. The head gives an amused grin in the daylight, ignoring the carnage about it and its own retched scent of carrion and rot.  
  
Pratt looks away, licking his cracked lips.  
  
“Are you — ” Pratt feels his voice crack. He clears his throat, but the words still sit in his mouth, half-formed.  
**_  
_**“I can wake you up,” the creature quietly supplies, ** _“you can walk away.”_  
**   
Pratt refocuses on Jacob, aware of the sweat creeping down his scalp. Shaking in the heat, he takes tentative steps forward, flinching at the sudden sound of _it_ moving, limbs dragging against the dirt. _It_ feels closer.  
  
He licks his lips, again, watching Jacob’s head, finally, turn towards him. There is a brief moment of recognition and Pratt can feel his mouth twitch upward.  
  
Was this the same thing as before? Jacob somehow…there?  
  
His eyes drift down, to the pool of blood, the strewn out display of bandages. Pratt drops his hands, face falling in slow realization.  
  
_Fuck…Focus._  
  
“Are you the reason why…” he tries again, eyes blinking rapidly, forcing himself to stare at a part of the thing before him, “Hope County is…” Even he can’t figure out how to explain the strangeness. The bizarre reality that a whole county has been held hostage and the world is unaware. The dreams — apocalyptic babble. The reason why no one can leave. That, somehow, he is in this moment right now and talking to… _this._ Fuck, he just needs his mouth to work. “Are you the one making everyone — ”  
  
A broken noise breaks the silence and the two of them turn to Jacob. His hands are pushing down on what must be the wound, throwing panicked looks at the, now, unresponsive soldier in front of him. Pratt looks back; he can see the dim glow of those eyes, the blood wedged in its joints as it stares down at him.  
  
“ ** _Why should you bother? Think of this as nothing more than a bad dream. A headache. Go back. All of this will stop.”  
_**   
A _‘yes’_ is cried out before Pratt can fumble with a response and the ground gives. His ankle gives a pained twist and he squeezes his eyes shut.  
  
He’s falling. Falling. Falling —  
  
Pratt’s chest heaves as his body jolts forward, thrown into a hypnic jerk.  
  
Hot air hits Pratt, squinting in the harshness of bright light. He holds a hand over his eyes, partially opening his eyes. Dirt. He’s standing on a long stretch of untamed dirt, gnarled, dried weeds sprouting out — _shit._  
  
He’s at the beginning.  
  
Pratt swears under his breath, pushing himself onto his feet. He can already hear the far off singing.  
  
_Shit. Shit shit._ He needs to… Pratt pushes the heel of his palm into his left eye, scrunching his face together. Last time he opened a door, this time he needed to… _what_? To stop…the noise? No. No, that’s not it.  
  
He throws himself to a jog to make sure the climbing figures of Jacob and Miller are in his line of —  
  
_The bleeding?_ He would need to — ;̶'̷;̷'̷\̸y̵̨̛̝̮̱̞̳̗̩̹͔̜̪͇͕̮̤͚̲͔̹͖͈̣̞̲̞̘͇̦̤̮͙͛̈́̂͗̔͆̿̈̈́̏̏̈̽̽̈͒̆̄̕ǫ̶̧̺͕̖̲̰̼̣̲̣̤̠̫͉͍̮̐͜ͅu]̴.̴.̶.̷/̴/̶/̴/̶  
  
Pratt shoves his fingers into his ears, watching both Jacob and him fall onto their knees.  
  
The earth tilts underneath him during his attempt to haul himself back onto his feet. He wobbles, arms stretched out, only to be thrown backwards. It’s happening _again_. And _again_. And _again_. The furious changing of sets, violently being thrown further away from the outskirts of camp. Dirt and rocks whip past him and Pratt claws for something to hold on, feeling the pads of his fingers flare with heat and biting pain.  
  
Then, it stops.  
  
Pratt skids across the dirt, side caught aflame, rocks and dirt having worn out small holes on his shirt. He bares his teeth when he touches his side. He can see Jacob being moved into the tent from afar.  
  
“Shit,” he huffs, wincing as he pulls himself up. His face falls when he sees what’s still lurking not too far off.  
  
**_“W̴h̵a̶t̵ a̸r̸e̸ y̶o̸u̶ d̴o̵i̴n̷g̶ o̷u̴t̶ h̸e̴r̸e̵,̵ little Lamb?_** ”  
  
“I’m here for Jacob,” his mouth labors, words barely audible as he sees it moving closer towards him.  
  
A strange noice echoes with the parody of laughter. Pratt’s shoulders round forward, almost curling in on himself.  
  
**_“A̶r̸e̵ y̸o̷u̸?”_**  
  
Miller is racing out of the tent and Pratt jogs after him. The memory is strange when not by Jacob’s side. Bullets streak across the sky, but the shooters are either nonexistent or dark, censored blurs dancing at the edges of his vision. Miller moves forward, his blocking unscripted and unknown, strangely standing one moment and being thrown onto his back the next.  
  
Jacob should be heading out from the tent soon, if he remembers correctly.  
  
“Are you the reason why no one seems to…” he falters off, going breathless. God, if this isn’t batshit crazy. He doesn’t even know _what_ he’s talking to. “What even are you?” he blurts, hating the nervous shrill creeping through.  
  
**_“T̴h̸e o̵ne̵ wa̵t̶c̴h̵i̵n̶g̷ the̷ ̸w̸o̸r̷l̷d̵ sl̸i̷d̶e̶ fu̷r̴t̵h̶e̶r̸ i̷n̶t̷o co̶n̷fl̵i̴ct̸, So̸m̵e̸t̸i̷m̶e̴s̴ gi̴v̷i̴n̷g̵ th̸a̸t̷ ex̴t̵r̵a̷ pu̷s̵h̴.”_**  
  
“I…” he starts, shaking his head, risking another look at the creature, “I don’t get it.”  
  
**_“H̷o̷w m̷u̴c̶h̷ ti̸m̵e̸ d̸o̴ yo̷u̸ h̶a̴v̴e̴ to̵ s̷p̶a̶re̵?”_** it asks, gratefully moving backwards — away. **_“H̷o̷w m̷u̴c̶h̷ ti̸m̵e̸ d̸o̴es h̸e̶ h̸a̶v̶e…”_**  
  
Pratt’s brows furrow, looking away — _shit_ , _Jacob_. He can see him already hunched over Miller, hands on his chest, panicking. Pratt flies into a sprint, watching Jacob turn his head towards the creature and give his desperate _yes._  
.  
.  
.  
  
Hot air hits Pratt, squinting in the harshness of bright light. Pratt scowls, squeezing his eyes shut as he takes a few ungainly steps forward. “Fuck,” he complains, regretting this. Regretting pushing to be here. He waits for his eyes to adjust before he’s pushing his way towards the campsite, ignoring Jacob and Miller cajoling at the other.  
  
The memory moves with him, forced to speed up, Miller and Jacob, now, walking too quickly towards the camp. It looked like Miller had a wound around his gut— possibly a bullet. Pratt’s face goes grim, trying to remember his first aid training. Shit, he thinks Whitehorse even had an offering of trauma training and he called sick last minute to laze about at home.  
  
“You still haven’t given me a straight answer!” he called out, near yelping when he feels it suddenly on his left, looming. He doesn’t get a response and Pratt hardly dares to see if his protest was even acknowledged.  
  
Miller is already on the floor and Pratt jogs toward him, glancing behind him to see if Jacob has already emerged from the tent. Not yet. _Good._  
  
He blanches at the sight of blood, sinking onto his knees. Carefully, he tries to pull back his uniform jacket, but when he pulls back… The jacket is underneath, as if he’s wearing layers of the same —  
  
“Fuck. Seriously?” he swears, trying again.  
  
**_“Y̸o̵u̶ c̴a̶n̸’t̸ c̸h̵a̷n̵g̴e̶ t̷h̵e̷ p̷a̸st,”_** the creature cautions.  
  
“Are you doing this? Is this you?” he gestures to Miller. Shit, Jacob is already hurtling their way.  
  
**_“T̷h̴i̷s̸ p̴l̵a̶c̶e̷ i̵s̴ m̸y̷ d̴o̵i̸n̷g̸. T̴h̵i̶s̴ m̵e̸m̷o̷r̸y̵ i̴s̵ J̵a̵c̴o̷b̴’̷s̶. H̸i̶s̵ de̵c̸i̶s̶i̵o̸n̶s̶ ar̴e̸ h̴i̶s̸ o̵w̵n̷. F̴o̵r̶ it̶s̷ r̷i̸d̷e̴r̶ wa̴s̴ ̷g̷i̵v̴e̸n̷ ̶p̸o̵w̸e̸r t̷o̵ t̸a̸k̶e̵ p̷e̴a̸c̶e̶ f̸r̵o̶m̸ t̵h̵e̸ e̷a̶r̷t̷h̷ a̸n̵d̴ t̵o̷ m̸a̴k̶e̷ m̷e̵n̴ s̵l̴a̴y̵ e̷a̶c̸h̶ o̴t̸h̴e̴r̶,̵ b̷u̵t̴ it̸ co̷m̴e̶s̷ a̵t̶ a̴ ̴p̸r̶i̶c̷e…”_  
**   
Pratt’s face scrunches, confused, but Jacob is pushing himself beside him, jostling back to the past. Somehow with Jacob beside Miller, the wound has grown grotesque. It gurgles out blood and Miller has turned dangerously pale, breath a dangerous wheeze. Pratt leans back, nostrils flaring. The wound looks larger, gagging at the peeking of torn flesh through the pooling blood.  
  
Jacob quickly presses his hand against the wound, blocking the sight.  
  
Jacob is no better, head swiveling, desperately looking for help. His free hand flying, grabbing at something behind Miller —  
  
“A kit, _it’s a kit,_ ” Pratt grins in realization, already reaching over, trying to help Jacob pull it open. He pulls at the straps, pushing it open, Jacob’s fingers hovering, caught in confusion, before lunging out for the gauze. Pratt keeps on searching through the kit, pulling it apart. _Fuck_ , he should have stayed for that stupid training.  
  
“Jacob — hey…” Pratt taking notice of what Jacob is doing. He pushes down the churning discomfort of watching gauze being shoved into the wound, forcing himself to look closer. It looks sloppy, gauze bunched up to one side. Pratt closes his eyes, swallowing down the acidic promise of bile. “Jacob — listen,” he starts, purposely turning back to the kit, rummaging through its items. “Jacob — it’s, I don’t think it’s packed in right.”  
  
**_“N̷o o̸n̷e ̴i̵s̷ h̸e̶r̴e̸, Ja̵c̷o̴b. J̷u̷s̴t̵ yo̶u̴,”_** the creature cuts through. Pratt shoots an incredulous look at it.  
  
Jacob is frozen, gaping up at the sight.  
  
Pratt inhales sharply in realization, whipping his head back at Jacob, “You made a deal with…?!”  
  
**_“T̵h̴e̴ r̶oad̸ i̵s̴ p̷a̷v̵ed̷ wi̸t̸h̶ g̵o̶o̷d̴ a̵n̵d̶ se̶l̷f̸i̷s̷h̴ i̵n̷t̷e̶nt̶i̵on̸s…”_** it returns.  
  
Pratt shakes his head, feeling lightheaded and wrong. Everything Joseph was shouting on about after the crash. Hell, before in the church. Revelations. “You’re War…” he mumbles out weakly, fingers idly pushing and scratching at the kit.  
  
He numbly watches Jacob uselessly try to stop the flow of blood, shoving gauze over gauze. He takes a shaky inhale and slowly turns back to the kit, eyes looking, but not quite seeing.  
  
**_“Re̷a̵d̸y̴ t̷o̶ w̵a̵k̴e̴ u̸p̵?”_  
**   
Pratt stiffens, listening to the frantic heaves next to him. He got his answer. There’s not much more… Working his jaw, he blinks through the self-induced haze and stares at the pack one last time. More gauze. Wipes. Tweezers. Something plastic and thin. Pratt pulls it out, hastily reading it —  
  
“I got — **_this is it,_** ” Pratt calls out, throwing a hand out to push at Jacob who is turning his head towards the Horseman. “You don’t need to say _yes_ — Jacob. **_Jacob!”_** he calls out, raising his voice into a shout until Jacob turns towards him. Just a bit. Enough for eyes to meet his. “Okay, we can fix this,” he coaches, more to himself than to Jacob. He’s hastily ripping out this supposed chest seal he’s found. It’s curling in — sticky on the bottom.  
  
_Okay, okay, you got this. It sticks. It should work on the gut…_  
  
“Jacob, we need to move the top or cut around it,” he shouts, relieved when Jacob actually moves, a nervous giggle frothing out. Jacob carefully rolls up Miller’s jacket and shirt, exposing the wound. Jacob tries to readjust the gauze pulled off with the shirt, but Pratt pushes his hand aside. “Leave it, I’m going to put this over it.”  
  
Maybe he should remove the other gauze that’s already wedged in —  
  
Miller gives a wet cough and that’s enough to have Pratt pressing the seal over the wound, wincing at its distended middle from the gauze. He’s looking at Miller, waiting for something to change… Nothing.  
  
_Shit — no, that had to work. It…_  
  
He throws a furtive glance up at the horseman, but it’s gone. Was that good? Bad? _Shit._ He whips back to Jacob and…something in Jacob’s shoulder loosens. It slowly spreads upward towards his neck, his jaw, his brows. Jacob slowly exhales. He gives one final look at Miller before turning towards Pratt, a bloody hand reaching for his knee, squeezing it.  
  
“Let’s go home, Pratt.”  
  
Staci Pratt, finally, wakes up.  


* * *

 

  
  
Staci Pratt wakes to dim lighting and the far off barking of dogs in the distance. He can feel he’s on a bed, hands blindly patting at the sheets underneath. Slowly twisting onto his side, he lurches forward when he sees Jacob seated on a chair next to the bed, slowly stirring.  
  
“You okay?” he rushes out, a hand reaching to grab for Jacob’s, but he catches himself. His hand embarrassingly waves in the air and falls down, Pratt, now, awkwardly hovering over a wakening Jacob.  
  
He looks exhausted, wincing as he arches his back, before settling back down. He gives a nod, moving a trembling hand to comb his fingers through his hair. His hand sits there on the top of his head, breathing slowly, eyes, still, closed. Pratt swears he can see the faded streak of blood across his cheek, his hand twitching uselessly by his side.  
  
“Jacob, I’m sorry,” he adds, carefully returning to the bed, sitting down when he feels the edge hit the back of his knees. Jacob only nods, quiet.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Pratt repeats, quieter.  
  
Jacob doesn’t respond.  
  
The tension that settles in the emptiness of the conversation is nauseatingly thick and cloying. It leaves Pratt shifting on the bed, disturbing the sheets with his hands.  
  
Eventually, Jacob’s hand slides off his scalp. He takes in another deep breath, expression falling into that safe, unreadable mask. It’s not perfectly done up, this time. Pratt thinks he sees the crack. A jaw tight enough that a muscle is flexing next to his ear. The stiffness of his neck. Red-rimmed eyes, swallowing up the blue inside.  
  
“I…” he starts, unsure, “is…” He purses his lips, frowning. He shouldn’t be asking this. He can ask later, but Jacob is making a gesture with his fingers, as if him asking him to continue on.  
  
“…is War…controlling you?” he asks, the question sounding offensive and ridiculous in his own head. A part of him wants to scream. This _doesn’t_ happen. None of these things are true. He can feel the sheer bafflement pushing over the edge, but it doesn’t quite spill over. Not yet.  
  
Jacob shakes his head, slow. “No,” he starts, voice dry and lips looking blistered as they finally part, “they’re just — doors. Holding the entry to…different possibilities. Opportunities. It’s not until you open that door do you find out what’s behind it…for better or worse.”  
  
Pratt nods likes he understands. What did that have to do with the rest of his family? With Hope County? With the Rookie? Gnawing on the inside of his mouth, he adds, hopefully, “Miller…made it?”

A muscle in Jacob’s cheek jumps, back going rigid. He gives a curt nod, but doesn’t elaborate.   
  
_Shit._ He twists the bedsheets around one of his hands, opening his mouth, to apologize. Again. “I…” he tries, ashamed, “I didn’t mean to pick…”  
  
Jacob only shakes his head, waving his hand in dismissal, “Stop apologizing.”  
  
The silence quickly follows, again.  
  
Pratt forces himself onto his feet, walking over towards the closed entryway leading out to the balcony. _Fucking doors._ He can see the warm glow of the outdoor lights pushing the window’s blinds. It must be eight at night — maybe even later.

“It’s late,” Pratt comments absently, trying to fill the room with _something._

Jacob doesn’t comment.   
  
Sighing, Pratt stares hopelessly about the room, unsure what to do. He…he shouldn’t be here. He wasn’t meant to see that memory and… Pratt scowls, shoving his hands in his pockets before pulling them out a moment later in frustration. _Fuck, why was he always bad at this?_ Turning on his heels, he looks towards the opposing door.

“I’m going to go to bed, Jacob,” he tries, waiting for a reaction. Nothing.   
  
Frowning, he makes his way across the room, moving behind Jacob.

A warm hand catches his wrist as he passes, gently tugging him to a stop. Pratt can feel himself hold his breath, shuffling a half step back. He anxiously stares down at the calloused hand curled around him.

“Stay,” Jacob swallows thickly, the word coming out strained.  
  
Pratt nods in relief — elated — before realizing Jacob can’t see the gesture. “Yeah — okay,” he quickly supplements. Jacob’s hand leaves his wrist, falling back on his knee. “I’m gonna grab some clean clothes. I smell like…” he starts, voice picking up, before it falters. Jacob’s shoulders are bunched and tight underneath his jacket, but he’s nodding.  
  
“I’ll be back,” Pratt adds.  
  
“I know.”  
  
.  
.  
.  
  
There is a cot set up not too far from Jacob’s bed when Pratt returns in clean clothes. He tried to wash out the scent of dirt from his hair in the sink, only succeeding in making his hair damp and smelling of cheap soap. Jacob is already in his bed, arm thrown over his eyes, chest rising and falling slowly. He can feel the weight of his lips take a downward twist. Should he…  
  
_No. You fucked this up more than enough._  
  
Pratt scratches at his forehead and closes the door quietly behind him, flicking at the light switch on his way to the cot. He carefully crawls in, pulling at the folded sheets underneath him. He undoes them with a few jerks, throwing them over him as he wiggles and squirms for a comfortable spot.  
  
He stays still once he finds it, holding on to the sheets.  
  
Reminding himself to breathe.

This wasn’t what he wanted, Pratt mulls over. How does tomorrow work?

“Jacob,” he whispers loudly before he can stop himself, “you awake?”

There is a shift of sheets and the soft groan of a spring as Jacob grunts in response. Pratt cranes his head, trying to see through the gloom of the room. He can poorly make out the outline of Jacob, but nothing else.   
  
He flops his head back on the pillow, listening to the rancorous pounding of the blood in his ears. Squeezing his eyes, listening to the minuscule tension of muscles coiling tightly above his nose, he throws his feet over his cot. The sheets go with him, tucked around his left foot, but he quickly kicks it off. Pushing himself onto his feet, he pads his way too quickly towards Jacob, enough to get him sitting up.

Pratt can only imagine the look on his face — can even catch a glimpse of it as he draws closer, brows high and pinched.

“What are you doing, Pratt?” Jacob asks, cautiously. 

“Don’t know yet,” he admits, daring to press a knee into the mattress. Waiting for permission. Jacob stares and, finally, makes room. 

Pratt squeezes himself next to Jacob in the darkness, pressing himself close to him and Jacob, all too easily, accepts. A hot twang of guilt pulls at his ribs. Jacob greedily leans into him, the two of them soaking in the other’s heat, as if all the heat left in the world were in their bodies and their bodies alone. A hand slides against his side, pulling him closer. Pratt moves easily, lets himself be guided until he’s being settled on Jacob’s thighs. Pratt can feel the rise of his chest against his, warm breath buffeting his right cheek. 

“You smell like soap,” Jacob comments. Pratt hums in response.   
  
Jacob pulls him closer, sagging against him, resting his forehead on his shoulder. Pratt can’t help but push his nose into Jacob’s neck, fingers latching onto his back, keeping them pinned together. They stay put like this, their breathing slowly synchronizing.  
  
He doesn’t know how long they have been sitting on the bed, holding the other close. Pratt, for a moment, nearly forgot everything. The time. The memory. The surreal terror lurking just beneath the surface. It was gone. Only the two of them remained, leaning against the other.

Jacob is the first to shift, rolling him closer against him until they’re perfectly slotted against the other. Pratt’s toes curl, aware of the hard line of heat pushing against his stomach. Jacob pulls closer and…it doesn’t quite feel right. Feels too soon. Jacob’s fingers slide downward, finding the flesh of his backside, pressing the pads of his fingers into the beginning swell. That familiar, knotting heat begins, again.   
  
The next grind upwards is forceful, nearly tipping the two of them backwards onto the bed, but they stay upright. Jacob is breathing hard against his scalp, fingers digging deeper into him, coaxing. Pratt stays put, unsure, before letting his hips bear down on Jacob’s lap. That earns him a noise in approval, hands giving an appreciative squeeze of his backside.  
  
“Take your clothes off,” Jacob growls, gently pushing him off of him. Pratt lets himself be moved, caught off guard. There is an unsettling churn of concern starting in his stomach, but… Shaking his head, he pulls his shirt over his head. He crawls over towards the edge of the bed, both half-on and half-off, to kick off his pants and underwear. He already feels too warm for his skin, despite the loss of clothing.

“On your side,” Jacob instructs, voice a low, rumble scratching out of his throat. He quickly complies, laying on his side so he’s facing Jacob — hands move him. He finds himself staring at the wall, his back facing Jacob. Pratt holds his breath, listening to the sound of a duffle bag being unzipped from underneath the bed and the bend and creak of its frame. Jacob moves closer, one of his thighs grazing the back of his. A hand digs into the meat of his top thigh and urges his legs to spread. It kicks the breath out of Pratt, something both eager and terrified tumbling out of his throat in a whine.

“Shh, shh, you’re fine,” Jacob soothes, pushing the thigh forward until his legs scissor further apart. The palm of his hand keeps his leg there and —

Pratt hisses, stiffening, when something cool is being smeared between his thighs. Jacob chuckles somewhere from behind, the sound fading into a drawn out shush. Pratt pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, a little perplexed when slicked fingers continue to push lubricant further between his thighs. When it begins to feel excessive, cool liquid starting to slip downward, does Jacob’s, finally, pull away.

He’s moving in place behind him, pressing himself into Pratt’s back, feeling Jacob hot against his backside. Jacob coaxes his thigh back towards him, wetly rubbing against the other. Pratt’s eyes dart across the wall’s surface, unsure. Jacob’s hand is adjusting his legs and —   
  
_Oh,_ leaves his mouth in a surprised exhale.

Jacob’s cock is pushing into the space formed by his thighs, feeling thick and heavy between him. An appreciative grunt leaves Jacob as he eases himself in further, a pathway of lubricant and sweat easily guiding him through. He slides slowing through before pulling back, readjusting his hips until he’s nearly pushing up into the stretch of skin. He keeps a steady pace, slowly working his way further and further into the created vacuum.

A push deeper has him giving a hungry noise in the back of his throat, breathing gone hard when he feels the head of Jacob’s engorged cock press into the underside of his own. It’s not enough. He needs more. 

He can feel the slick walls of his pinned thighs grip Jacob as he slides in and out, slow and hard, hardly grazing where he _wants_ to be touched. Pratt tries to grind back into Jacob. Tries to tilt his hips in different angles so Jacob’s cock pushes into the swell of his balls, trying to dredge up pressure and heat. It’s not enough.  
  
A garbled word pushes out of Pratt’s mouth, frustrated. Jacob stopped moving, content to let Pratt gyrate against him, pace impossibly uneven and desperate. Everything is hot, sticky, and wet, rolling and pushing liquid down past his thighs. The wet squelch in the aftermath of his movements leaves him both flushing in embarrassment and drooling hungrily.

“That’s it,” Jacob grunts in approval next to his ear, “move on it.” 

He can feel his own cock leaking onto his stomach and sheets, stupidly relieved at the praise. He pushes the the ache and burn of his thighs with each hasty rut. His hand feels uncoordinated and lost when he moves it onto his cock, desperately trying to recreate what he hears and feels between his thighs. It’s still not enough, his hand feeling clumsy.  
  
“Jacob,” he gasps out, pleading. 

A hand reaches over, pushing at his arm to move, before groping its way towards him. Pratt’s hips shudder to a halt when Jacob’s greased hand finds his cock, curling around it.

“Keep moving,” Jacob prompts and Pratt quickly rolls his backside back. He groans softly when Jacob’s worn hand begins to massage his cock. It’s…not enough. It’s too slow.   
  
An agitated noise bubbles in his throat, trapped, feeling thrown between one want and the next. He tries to push himself further into the hand, hips picking up, feeling delirious. He wants something faster, trying to frantically show it, letting his thighs push closer together until Jacob is snarling behind him.  
  
Pratt curses, head nearly knocking back into Jacob’s, as his toes curl. He arches forward, chasing the tight squeeze of Jacob’s hand. He’s barely aware of the staccato whimpers and cut-short-moans, frantically pushing himself into Jacob’s grasp. His gut burns and his feet arch up, calves tight, as he suddenly spills over Jacob’s hand with a soundless moan.  
  
He shakes against him, feeling his limbs slowly become boneless with exhaustion.

Jacob’s hand crawls itself back onto his top thigh before Pratt can complain of the pressure, blunt nails digging for purchase. He takes up the pace, moving slow, before speeding up. Jacob’s hipbone thudding against his backside promises bruises for tomorrow with each enthused thrust. He’s slamming into the sweltering space between them, the slapping sounds of their bodies meeting fast and hard drowning out their haggard breathing.   
  
Jacob is growling something out into the back of his ear, but Pratt can’t make it out. Sounds like his name. Maybe. He nods, regardless, earning an approving sound before Jacob’s hips give a maddening stutter. Painfully digging his fingers deeper into his thighs, Jacob comes to a spasming halt. Something hot and thick pushes into Pratt’s skin as Jacob groans breathlessly against his scalp.

Jacob’s breath comes out noisy and short from behind him, sucking back spit in a wet inhale. He doesn’t pull away. He stays put, cock still in-between Pratt’s thighs, aware of the warm leak and drag of cum sliding down the lines and nooks of his thighs and pelvis. 

Jacob inhales deeply and lets a hand graze over the meat of Pratt’s closest thigh. Each scratch of a callous and broken skin against his thigh has warmth pushing across the skin of his throat. Jacob’s hand, finally, settles on his hipbone, giving it a squeeze.

A nose pushes itself somewhere behind his ear and Jacob sighs. He burrows his nose deeper into his hair before settling. He stays there, breathing beginning to come easy.

Pratt wants to turn his head — to look at Jacob —but he doesn’t. 

He’s tight with nerves, holding his breath. He waits until the fall and rise of Jacob’s chest against his back slows even further before risking movement. Carefully, he turns his head. The hand on his hip gives a squeeze, pulling him further flushed against Jacob. Awkwardly craning his neck, feeling Jacob’s nose slide away from his ear, he finds himself somewhat looking at the man. 

He’s flushed pink from exertion, eyes closed. Pratt stares before taking in a deep breath and pushes himself further into deeper waters. He leans forward and presses his mouth where he can. The angle is wrong and his neck is giving a warning pinch, but he manages to press his lips into the corner of Jacob’s mouth. Chaste. Quick.

Jacob recoils, eyes open, surprised. Wounded, even. The expression is gone before Pratt can give it thought. 

Hands are, suddenly, moving him, carefully pulling them apart. Pratt doesn’t resist, lets himself be rolled onto his back, listening to the sound of Jacob sliding off the bed. Listening to the distinct sound of clothes being quickly thrown on.   
  
Pratt stays put, aware of the heat singeing his ears and cheeks, the sticky discomfort drying down his thighs…

_Idiot._

Something soft is tossed his way, landing on his hip. Pratt turns to it, a hand reaching out to grab it — a towel. He can feel tension sew his jaw shut, teeth grinding down on each other. Sitting up, he brusquely wipes himself down, suddenly irritated. 

_Idiot. idiot._

“You should cl— ”

“ _I got it_ ,” Pratt cuts through, albeit too loudly. He winces at himself. Pushing himself off the bed, he searches the floor for his underwear, angrily slipping them on. He thinks the shirt on his floor is his. Fuck, does it even matter? Pratt grabs it, tucking it underneath his arm.

He knows Jacob is watching him, but Pratt won’t turn to look. Stomping his way angrily across the room until he finds his pants, he makes a beeline to the door. He makes a show of opening the door and letting it fall heavy against its frame when he closes it. It echoes in the hospital — enough to make him flinch. Enough to make him pause for a moment.

He’ll regret it in the morning, he thinks, but for now, he relishes the slamming shut of Jacob’s door.

 

  
_**Art Commission By[fancymakesart](https://fancymakesart.tumblr.com/post/180490539288/commission-for-carvedwhalebones-to-accompany)** _


	16. We'll Meet Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband"_ **\- Revelations 21:1-2**

 

**John Seed  
**   


John wakes to a soft staccato hum. Little more than a purr. Bees trapped indoors and pressing insistently against the window.   
  
Where is he? The scent and chill of the dampness of metal walls; the scent of dried sweat on old clothes tossed into a corner; the familiar clank and groan of hundreds of interconnecting and crossing pipes. John’s shoulders sag and he throws a hand up, digging fingers into the corners of his eyes. He’s still in the _fucking_ bunker.

The hum grows into a thud, his head tilting up, staring at the dark space above him. Another thud, barely audible — 

“Deputy,” he identifies, lips twisting with disdain, but tone quite the opposite.   
  
John kicks the sheets off of him and gets on his feet, fumbling for the light. He hastily throws on clothes, reaching out for a ring of keys sitting on an ornate and out of place desk. John pauses before his hand can go for the knob. He finds the simple firearm he always keeps on his person, tucking it eagerly into the back of his jeans. He leaves his room with just socks and yesterday’s clothes, giving out a daring whistle.  
  
He unlocks the door in front of him, swinging it open — _THUNK._  
  
The door makes contact with something, the sound thunderous. John peers around the door, finding a chair in its way. It’s a tipped over chair, zip tie bindings cut and protruding from its armrests. What once occupied the chair is no longer there.  
  
John, instinctively, reaches for the gun, eyes roaming up the flight of stairs before him. He steps over the chair, walking around the boxes of camera and TV equipment shoved against the left wall. His sock-covered feet pad softly on metal, whistling. It alternates between _We’ll Meet Again_ and _What You Won’t Do for Love._

Another thud. Louder, this time. Somewhere on the second floor.  
  
“Oh, _Deputy,_ ” he singsongs out as he reaches the top, searching.  
  
The room is stuck in the sweaty, red ambiance of the bunker’s dim lights when its residents are asleep. On the wall before him, suspended, vacuum-sealed figures and weights act as macabre decor. One of the lower hanging figures is swaying…  
  
“I’m not mad,” he calls out, slowly approaching, gun held up, “deciding to break free is…natural.” He lets an index finger slide upward, flipping off the safety. “Every relationship is a power struggle,” John steps closer, voice dropping, “some of us just need to be controlled.”

The soft sound of something scuffing against the metal floor has his head twitching to his right, neck twisting. He catches movement, head moving further back, shoulders turning —   
  
With a grunt of shocked surprise, John takes the full brunt of _something_ striking him hard in the face, knocking him onto his back.  
  
John can feel his heart pumping, hands scrambling for purchase, kicking his feet to create distance. Bright pain sears across his face and — his gun. Where is it? Where is it?! With all the adrenaline rushing through his veins, he manages to push himself onto one knee. He blindly gropes for his gun, vision a blur of reds and grays.  
  
Something hard hits his shoulder, whirling him to the right. He manages to throw his gaze towards his attacker, finding the Deputy. She slowly comes into focus, exposing the rigid lines of her jaw and her pulled back lips, exposing her teeth.

Her fist cocks back and his body won’t move. He gapes and yelps as it hits him square in the nose, warm blood instantly seeping out.   
  
Vanity has him reaching a shaking hand to check on his nose, scowling when he finds it broken. “You think you’re a force of good, but you’re not,” he heaves through blood and spit, not bothering to push himself back up onto his feet. “You’re not,” he repeats, staring upward at the Deputy. She looks hauntingly surreal in the lighting, face glistening with sweat, her shirt stained and worn. Black, smudged ink stretched across her collarbone stares down at him.

_“You’re not,”_ he snarls lowly, spit flying out of his mouth.  
  
A fist collides into his eye, darkness overtaking his vision and consciousness.  
  
.  
.  
.  
.

John wakes, again, to the staccato hum, but, this time, it is louder. The buzz is insistent and urgent, John squeezing his eyes, before opening them. He stares at the sight of his knees bare and exposed. Along with his feet…stomach… 

John groggily stares at himself, finding himself seated, naked, and tied down by clean zip ties. The old, severed and loosened zip ties that once held the Deputy remained — jutting out just a few inches next to his pinned wrist.   
  
Deputy Lamb stands just a ways away, fingers toying with his tattoo machine. She looks wild with her matted hair, her face gaunt, and teeth maniacal. Weeks of being locked with him has taken away the fullness of her cheeks and the warm color of her skin.

The tattoo machine clicks _on_ and _off_ in her hands _._ _Buzzing_ and _silence_. _Buzzing_ and _silence._ She, finally, places the machine down, but only to slide a latex glove over one of her hands. She tugs on the rim of the glove, the satisfying slap smacking her wrist filling the air. That sends a roiling heat sloshing in his gut. 

John tries his restraints, arching his back, pulling on the zip ties. The plastic digs into his wrists, pulling him back down onto the chair. His backside uncomfortably settles back in the sweat and humidity the wood of the chair couldn’t soak up. 

The heat in his gut is borderline unbearable, his restless shifting doing nothing to appease it.  
  
“You know,” John noisily breathes out, “imitation is the highest form of flattery.”

The Deputy moves toward him with what looks like a wet sponge in one hand as the other hand pushes the rolling stool towards him. She takes a seat and begins to clean a bare patch of skin on his right thigh. John’s breath catches in his throat, stupidly elated at the sight, despite the outraged hiss pushing past his teeth.

The skin is cleaned and she leaves the stool only to bring the rest of John’s tools closer. The buzz of the tattoo machine starts up. John pulls his shoulders back, shifting, until a gloved hand is digging into the meat of his thighs, forcing him in place.   
  
Needle touches skin and a choked exhale pushes through. His fingers uncurl and curl into fists, watching ink bloom across his skin, leaving shaky, uneven lines across his skin. One already cuts through an old tattoo of scales, leaving John’s nostrils flaring.

“I’m not going to forget this,” he seethes, voice dropping, leaning forward. No response. The Deputy is starting to carve out words. “Whatever you do,” he starts, again, albeit winded, but trying to gain his center, “I will give it right back to you. I can fucking guarantee you won’t like — ”

The needle digs in a bit too deeply and the wounded, disgustingly pleased noise that leaves John slips past his tongue before he can shut his mouth.  
  
“Your keys don’t open up the cell doors,” the Deputy, finally, speaks.  
  
It takes John far too long to process what has been said, staring incredulously at her before it shifts into an open grin.  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” he heaves, needle leaving his skin, but still buzzing madly, “trying to break Hudson out?” He tries to lean forward, giving a knowing look, “Is that why you’re still here? Doing this?”

  
The needle digs back into his skin, John seething.  
  
“How do I open up the cell doors?” she asks, louder, dragging the needle harshly down his thigh, “or I keep on spelling out _‘fucktard’_ on your leg.”  
  
A gurgled noise, spit and blood churning in the back of his throat, leaves John, fingers and toes stretching at the burning line of pain pulling at his nerves. He sags into the seat when the needle pulls out. Ink, sweat, and blood slide slowly down his thigh.  
  
_“John.”_  
  
John gives a shaky exhale, grinning, head shaking, “And if I don’t?”

A hand latches onto his throat. The Deputy gives him a hard shake, bending down so her face is just a breadth away from his. “Then I finish what I started and then you’re going to find out where I shove this needle next,” she threatens, fingers giving a meaningful squeeze.  
  
“I’m only here because I’m letting you keep me here,” John wheezes out, struggling to swallow the spit pooling in the back of his mouth.  
  
That earns a harsh noise, the Deputy shoving herself between his legs, tattoo machine humming warningly somewhere between their bodies. John can’t help but suck his stomach in when he feels the faintest pinprick of pain graze his skin.  
  
_“How do I open the fucking cell door!?”_ she shouts, spit hitting his face.  
  
John remains quiet, staring.  
  
The Deputy pulls back, blinking rapidly, taking a ragged inhale. There is a moment of debate, eyes darting across the room. Before John can open his mouth, the hand holding the tattoo machine goes swinging, the side of the machine and knuckles catching his cheek. Colored spots flare in John’s vision, blood pooling somewhere from the inside of his cheek. He tosses a glare at the Deputy, turning his head to spit a bolus of blood and saliva onto the floor.  
  
She surges back forward, machine dropped down low between his legs.  
  
“I’m not fucking around,” she reiterates lowly.  
  
John stares before rolling his eyes, “T̸u̵r̸n̶ i̵t̷ o̶f̴f̴. P̵u̷t̴ i̸t̴ d̴o̷w̷n̴. G̵e̷n̵t̸l̸y̴.”  
  
Deputy Lamb’s hand moves immediately towards the switch, features twisting into surprise, quickly morphing into outrage. Her free hand vainly tries to stop the other, gripping and pushing at her own fingers to no avail. The tattoo machine stops its buzzing and is gently returned to its rightful place. The Deputy remains put, anger broiling and rising out of her shoulders.  
  
“Fuck you.”

John nods, attempting to crack his back in his restraints before leaning back into the chair. “I’ll make you a deal,” he begins, giving another cursory glance at his sluggishly bleeding thigh, “stay here and I’ll let Hudson out.” 

A queer look settles on the Deputy’s face, finally turning to look at John, “Why not just force me to stay?”

John just gives a small smile and a shrug.   
  
The look remains on her features, but her eyes slowly drift in the direction of the stairs. It goes back to John’s toolbox before she’s violently rummaging through it. John snorts, watching.  
  
“There is nothing in that box that will help you,” John begins, words shifting into song, dragging out _you._  
  
The toolbox is being flung across the room with a frustrated shout, metal bouncing loudly onto the floor. She spins on her heels, as if to return to John, hands balled into tight fists, and… One of her shoulders slumps. She backs away from John before madly sprinting down the flight of stairs, her feet slapping loudly with each step.

 

“So that’s a _no_ for Deputy Hudson,” he mulls out loud to himself, turning his head, straining to see the stairs. “Doesn’t matter where you go, Deputy,” he calls out, throwing his head back, “God will guide me to you. I’ll come for you when you’re good and ready.”

  
✠✠✠✠✠

**Staci Pratt  
**   


Staci cannot concentrate on his chores or simple conversations. Every time he shuts his eyes, some vision of Jacob overmasters him: the flash of hurt in his eyes, muscular thighs, War. He hasn’t spoken to Jacob after his impromptu exit out of the room. He’s purposely been keeping himself elsewhere at the hospital, grabbing food at obscure hours and volunteering to perform chores that keeps him far from the heart of the hospital.  
  
He likes to imagine that every moment he’s been pulled out of sleep that it’s because he heard the shuffle of Jacob’s feet and the clink of his keys outside the door. That the nearly uncomfortable heat that fills the cell as he kicks his sheets off is somehow because of him.  
  
Staci can’t even recall _what_ he is even upset over. Even when he tells himself it is because Jacob houses an apocalyptic myth, it never quite takes.   
  
Jacob hasn’t approached him either. Pratt knows he could go to Jacob now, mumble some shit apology, and he’d accept it. He bets the offer to sleep on the cot in Jacob’s room is still there if he wishes it.  
  
The Deputy scowls and busies himself moving boxes of a medley of antibiotics and medical supplies from one truck to the next. There is a crick in his neck and the boxes are heavier than he can handle. Staci stubbornly refuses to give pause, shuffling quickly to slide the crate onto the truck before hauling up the next. He chooses to ignore the  **HOPE COUNTY HOSPITAL** logo printed on the side of each box. He situates them on the truck so the logo hides from clear view.  
  
“Almost done?” a voice inquires.  
  
Pratt gives a robotic nod, not even bothering to look at the speaker. He throws in a bit more effort onto the next box now that he has an audience. His neck and back spasms in agony.  
  
“When you’re done, get inside. You’re coming with me,” the voice instructs, followed by the crunch of footsteps on dirt, walking away.  
  
It takes too long for Pratt to register it as Jacob’s voice, nearly dropping the box in his arms.  
  
Either out of petulance or embarrassment, Pratt takes his time securing the remaining boxes and shutting the back of the truck. He kicks at the dirt with each step towards the passenger seat. Pratt doesn’t risk a peek through the passenger window, he’s pushing his way inside, immediately aware of Jacob already seated in the front seat. Pratt buckles himself in as the truck’s engine rumbles to life.  
  
The drive out is nearly silent. The radio is turned down low, the murmur of static and pieces of broken news — “ _met protesters with tear gas and rubber bullets. At least 35 people have died in the clashes, and more than 800 have been taken into custody_ ” — bleeding through.  
  
Pratt can see Jacob from his peripherals. He’s still wearing the familiar military jacket. His beard even looks like it’s been trimmed so its closer to his chin.  
  
Pratt goes to open his mouth, but firmly shuts it, crossing his arms across his chest. He keeps his eyes focused in front of him, watching the natural bend of the road.  
  
The drive is short, Jacob pulling the truck to a slow halt as they approach metal gates to their right. A massive structure — what looks like the backside of the McKinley Dam — stands at attention, heavily guarded by armed guards and prowling Judges. Someone whistles and the metal gates push inward, Jacob easing the truck in.  
  
“This is…” Pratt can’t help himself, staring out the window to get a better look at the structure.  
  
“An armory,” Jacob starts, turning off the truck, tugging the keys out of the ignition, “and a bunker.”  
  
“A bunker?” Pratt casts a quick look at Jacob, but Jacob is already opening the truck door and hopping out. Pratt quickly follows suit, clambering out of the truck, rounding around the front to approach Jacob. Jacob is busy instructing a few of his followers to move the boxes into the bunker. “A bunker?” Pratt tries, again, “a bunker for what?”  
  
Jacob shoots him an arched brow and moves towards the entrance of this bunker. Pratt walks quickly after him, trying to meet his strides.  
  
“Bunker implies protecting something,” he continues, staring curiously at Jacob pull a key on a laniard from underneath his shirt.  
  
“Very astute,” Jacob dryly retorts. Pratt glowers, but he quickly shakes it away. That feels a bit deserved.  
  
He watches him stick the key into a slot, fingers pressing on a keypad — _why the hell is he letting me see this?!_ “I…” Pratt stumbles with his words as a resounding click from the door comes pouring out, Jacob pulling it open. “What the hell would — ” Jacob shoots him a warning look, Pratt’s voice dropping into a low whisper, “War want with a bunker? Is this for you? Your brothers?”  
  
Jacob lightly pushes Pratt off to the side, stepping out of the way to allow his men to carry the boxes into the depth of the bunker.  
  
“This bunker are for those who follow Eden’s Gate and, if it is needed, for my brothers,” Jacob, finally, responds once the last box has been brought into the bunker.  
  
“War wants to _protect_ _people?!_ Why? From what?”  
  
Jacob sighs and gestures for Pratt to follow after him, the two walking down a series of staircases. The bunker feels oddly warm, heat pushing through the cement walls. “Is that such a hard concept to wrap your head around?”  
  
“Yes?” Pratt replies, incredulous.  
  
“This world is on the brink of its next crisis,” Jacob begins, falling into that practiced, lecturing cadence, “corrupt government officials. Flailing economy. Struggling workers. The gap between the poor and rich expanding. Oversea tensions. _This_ is what happens when you put wolves and bears in the same pen with no oversight. This bunker are for those who can see that the red light has been blinking for quite some time.”  
  
Pratt has heard this speech numerous of times either from Jacob himself or played in loop through the loudspeakers. Now, knowing what sits inside Jacob, the words leave his knees weak and legs limp. He has to grab at the railing for support, his feet sloppily thudding on each step.  
  
“Doesn’t…doesn’t War want a crisis?” Pratt croaks, relieved when Jacob pauses on the steps, waiting for him to catch up.  
  
“War doesn’t end, Staci,” Jacob reminds, reaching out to steady Pratt. His hand settles on one of his sides and Pratt has to stop himself from sighing like some forlorn idiot. “It’s continuous and it can only remain continuous if there are people left to partake,” he continues, the words leaving a foul taste in his mouth. This bunker is both altruistic and bloody.  
  
Pratt pushes Jacob’s hand off and moves to walk past him, hurrying himself down the stairs. “So live today and fight tomorrow sort of bullshit, huh?” he grits out as he reaches the bottom, marching forward to…well, he’s not sure where. He stubbornly picks a direction and pushes himself forward.  
  
“Why are you even showing me this?” Pratt huffs out, staring up at the upcoming metal door, **SACRIFICE** emblazoned in white paint right above it. He’s moving through what looks like a cluster of desks, but no one is manning them.  
  
“Jacob?” he calls out when there is a lack of a response. He feels it’s enough of an excuse to stop and turn around, giving out an exasperated sound.  
  
Jacob is a few steps behind him, his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans.  
  
“You can move your mom here.”  
  
That kicks the wind out of his lungs, eyes bulging. A hand uselessly flaps in the air, gesturing at Jacob. “You can’t just say that kind of shit!” he snaps, his heart beating madly in his throat, horrified. Was this really going to happen? End is nigh? Hell and brimstone on earth? His mom — _god, his mom_. “You can’t just do this and…” he protests, his train of thought failing as he watches Jacob’s brows pinch in concern.  
  
Pratt steps forward and angrily shoves at Jacob. Jacob doesn’t yield, initially, but takes a willing step back. “Why are you even saying this shit?” he finds his words, voice cracking, giving another shove, “did you bring me here to scare me?! Some sort of intimidation bullshit tactic? Huh?” Another shove and Jacob takes a step back.  
  
Jacob catches one of his wrists, holding him put even as he tries to jerk it out of his grip. Pratt gives a half-assed attempt to pull away before going still, shoulders sagging.  
  
“Are you done fighting me?” Jacob murmurs, pulling Pratt closer. Pratt shuffles a step forward, letting his forehead rest into Jacob’s shoulder. He can feel Jacob’s lips press into his scalp, admitting lowly, “I’m trying to apologize.”  
  
Pratt snorts to himself, staying put, “Yeah, end of the world really does it for me.” An unamused grunt from Jacob has Pratt relenting, leaning into him, “I get what you’re trying to do and I…that was nice.”  
  
“You will have to reach out to her. I can help with the transportation,” Jacob advises, a scarred hand carefully pushing Pratt away from his shoulder so that it can curl around his jaw. “You’ll have another chance to talk to her…” he adds and Pratt swears softly under his breath, closing his eyes.  
  
_That_ was Jacob’s apology.  
  
“I’m not sure how I’m going to explain all of this to her,” Pratt admits. Just thinking of how that conversation may play out has his gut twisting into knots. “She’s not going to like this place… It’s…depressing and don’t expect her to convert or whatever,” he’s starting to tick off, eyes staring at the dull,gray features of the bunker.  
  
Fuck, does that mean he’s going to be here, too? With Jacob? With Eden Gate? What about the Rookie? Whitehorse? Hudson?  
  
Pratt squeezes his eyes shut, guts and thoughts swirling.  
  
_Shit. Shit shit._  
  
“I’ve never been one to care for religion, Staci. I’m not asking her to convert… I can, also, add in flowers,” Jacob lamely offers, earning a bewildered stare.  
  
For a moment, the becoming nausea is briefly forgotten, a bark of laughter rushing out, “Flowers? In Jacob Seed’s armory-slash-bunker?”  
  
“It wouldn’t be the strangest thing within these walls.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the hiatus, but I am back! Thank you for your patience and I hope you enjoyed this new installment!


	17. I Must Protect My Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Nothing impure will ever enter it, nor will anyone who does what is shameful or deceitful, but only those whose names are written in the Lamb’s book of life."_ \- **Revelation 21:27**

** Staci Pratt **

The bunker grows warmer the further Staci Pratt steps in, hands subconsciously rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt. He can’t help but let a hand reach out and brush against one of the bunker walls, finding it pleasantly hot. Staci can’t begin to understand how that’s possible; the Henbane River is somewhere off to their right, known for always carrying a chill. He presses his hand flat against the wall, waiting. Warmth and a tremble answers him.  
  
Pratt places his ear against the wall, feeling the subtle vibrations of the bunker’s innards churning, the heat from the wall turning his ear pink.  
  
An amused snorts cut through from behind him. Pratt turns his head so the other ear is against the wall, now staring at Jacob. Jacob is leaning against the wall a few feet away. His gaze looks faraway, but his eyes are watching him.  
  
At first he’d been pleased with the opportunity to widen the gap between himself and Jacob. An invisible barrier stood before them and Jacob was the same, albeit aloof and distant. The stoic manager pushing out daily chores and tasks while Pratt, deliberately, takes them in silence. In that growing ravine, he felt stress fill the space…  
  
It’s a relief to find himself here.  
  
“Was this always here?” Pratt asks, lifting his head. Jacob blinks and refocuses on Pratt. “Is this just a part of the dam?”  
  
Jacob crosses his arms, brows furrowed, before shaking his head. “Not a part of the McKinley Dam, but it is built right next to it,” he starts, pushing himself off and moving down the long stretch of hallway they paused in. He gives a gesture with his hand for Pratt to follow.  
  
“What you see here is a part of what was once the Safeguard Program. Fifty some years ago, U.S. Army engineers came in trying to build antiballistic missile systems to protect their own missiles during the Cold War. Department of Defense was concerned China or the Soviets would target these silos. As you can imagine, folks living in the area did not approve,” Jacob continues, taking a turn that led to the mouth of a staircase going down.  
  
“Wait — you mean like the old radar station? Silos?” Pratt huffs out, following Jacob down the stairs.  
  
“All a part of it. Montana was expecting a flood of army engineers and personnel, the Department of Defense promising to invest money into the communities it impacted. Ended up being half mess, half success.” Jacob reaches the bottom of the stairs, moving towards a steel door alongside another stretch of hallway. He pushes it open, revealing a room covered in blueprints and maps. File cabinets stand at the base of the pinned blueprints like silent sentinels. Jacob points at one, Pratt shuffling closer to look.  
  
“This the bunker?”  
  
Jacob grunts, squinting briefly at the blueprint for tapping a finger on one of the sections. “We’re here, right now.” He drops his hand, making room as Pratt leans closer to look. “In the 70’s, the army was building steel and concrete structures both above and underground. Radar stations were set in place, but the people of Montana resisted. Some picketed. Others refused to sell land. Two years later, projects sat incomplete and abandoned. What you see today is what _was_ completed and still standing.”  
  
Staci stares at the blueprint, trying to make heads and tails of it. His eyes find what is labeled as the control room. It looks like it’s on the same floor as the one he’s on now.  
  
“This bunker will…” Staci starts, pausing to sigh, albeit annoyed towards himself by his own words, “could it still…you know…”  
  
“Yes,” Jacob confirms, the unexpected steel of steadfast conviction sharpening his tongue, “everything that I do. Everything my brothers do. It is to make sure that this bunker, and the others, can protect…”  
  
He can feel Jacob’s stare is burrowing a hole into his cheek, his pulse thumping noisily in his ears. There is something being unsaid that leaves the inside of his elbows and palms sweaty.  
  
Pratt’s shoulders rise and fall, sloppily pulling himself away from Jacob and the map. He feigns interest on another map. His eyes are not quite seeing what he’s looking at. Lines and shapes blurring. The image of a man with scraggly hair and an unkept beard is pinned to the map with the Whitetail insignia on his jacket’s shoulder. Even that begins to blur.  
  
“What’s this?” he gestures at the map in front of him, voice strange.  
  
Jacob, thankfully, does not move from his spot towards him. He remains put.  
  
“Whitetail bunker. It’s actually not too far from here.”  
  
Pratt dumbly nods, blinking. He risks rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. He sees the map clearly, this time. Picture of the man pinned to a large spot on the map is circled. It’s pinned right next to a small set of blueprints and notes of what looks like another bunker… Pratt narrows his eyes, leaning in close to stare at the small font indicating what room is what —  
  
“You have their location? Even a blueprint of it?!” Pratt squawks, spinning around to stare incredulously at Jacob.  
  
Jacob only stares back, expression unreadable. _Typical._  
  
Pratt throws a hand back to pat the map, excited to be discussing something else, “Why don’t you just attack it now?! You know where it is. You know how to get in!”  
  
Jacob’s licks his lips and shakes his head, “Not yet.”  
  
“What does that even mean?” He doesn’t get it and can’t help but take a few steps to close the distance between the two of them, only to take a step back to intensely gesture at the map. “What are you even waiting for? Stopping them means… _shit…_ ” He loses his train of thought, searching. _Why do you even care?_ he questions himself. His thoughts dredge up his first time in the cages. The surprise attack at the veteran’s hospital. _They’re not fighting you, they’re fighting —_  
  
“It means no more shooting at us,” Pratt settles on, his hand flopping up and falling uselessly at his side.  
  
“Us?” Jacob quietly returns back.  
  
Pratt continues, caught in his own spiral, “You have _War_ , what’s stopping you?”  
  
Jacob sighs and holds one of his hands out for Pratt to cease and desist. “They have set in motion our survival, but their powers are not unconditional.” He drops his hand and Pratt watches him stiffly fix his jacket. “I can influence. I can nudge. I can lay out a path, but if I overstep my bounds…a terrible price has to be paid,” he explains, scratching at the side of his cheek.  
  
“Terrible price?” Pratt asks, concerned interest softening his words.  
  
“It changes Joseph’s vision, for better or for worse,” Jacob vaguely returns, adding with a wry snort, “if anyone is to put stock into it.”  
  
Pratt goes quiet, cogs turning furiously in his skull.  
  
“Do you?”  
  
“Do I what?"  
  
“Do you put stock into it?”  
  
Jacob scoffs.  
  
“No. I don’t care for fortunes and visions,” replies Jacob, moving towards the table in the middle of the room, sitting partially on top of the table. “Julius Caesar was warned of danger on the Ides by a soothsayer named Spurinna. She looked at the guts of an ox, picked through the mess, and found it had no heart. She would take this to be the sign of the gods’ disapproval.  
  
“Caesar would dismiss it and, later, be assassinated on the Ides. Some say he should have listened, but you have to understand that over sixty men wanted Caesar dead for their own personal and political reasons for quite some time. No matter how careful he could have been or places he could have avoided, he would have faced the same ending one way or another. Maybe not on that day or the next, but eventually. Men who have always known power and have lost it will find ways to reclaim it. Following omens and visions doesn’t prevent the violence of men.”  
  
“But…your brother is…like you, right? Has…something riding shotgun? Shouldn’t he be right?” Pratt questions.  
  
“At the end of the day, he’s just a man making interpretations and wondering if it is divine disapproval or approval he sees.”  
  
A strange relief finds its way home at the skepticism, slowly unlacing the tension zigzagging down his spine. He gives a nod, posture relaxing. He dares himself to take a seat next to Jacob at the table. Immediately, Jacob’s hand leaves the edge of the table and settles somewhere on the empty space behind him, torso opening up towards him.  
  
The same warmth from the walls of the bunker is found in Jacob, reminding Pratt it has been days since he’s been this close to Jacob, let alone have a conversation.  
  
Pratt wiggles himself further onto the table, taking in a deep inhale. He’s still trying to make sense of…everything: new and old information. “Then why don’t you just…” he starts, staring at his boots in thought before turning to Jacob, “rip open the bunker door of the Whitetails and finish it, if you don’t care for the visions?”  
  
“ _Patience,_ Pratt. I am in no rush,” Jacob murmurs in turn. His lips curl into a breadth of a smile, unsettling and wolfish. While not directed towards him, it leaves him uneasy. Both smile and words carrying a tireless, wild persistence of a predator — the endless hours remaining in one spot until a target moves into his line of sight.  
  
“Well…” Pratt starts, changing the subject, “if you don’t… _believe_ , what makes you think this bunker can withstand _‘Hell’s Bells’_?”  
  
Jacob arches a brow, the corner of his mouth upturning into amusement.  
  
“Impressed?” Pratt jabs back, smirking.  
  
“A little,” Jacob admits, biting back with something playfully coy, “here I thought you grew up with that — what’s his name? Bieber?”  
  
A disgusted noise rolls out of Pratt’s mouth, physically recoiling back, chin tucking into his chest. “The fact you _know_ that name pisses me off,” he sourly huffs out, earning a shit-eating-grin out of Jacob. Old laugh lines crinkle around his eyes and Pratt can feel his mouth involuntarily twitch, ready to match the grin. He has to fight himself to keep the scowl.  
  
It’s too stupidly easy to fall into this.  
  
“Am I wrong?” Jacob gives a knowing look.  
  
Pratt glares, protesting, “Do I look like I ever — _no_!”  
  
Jacob chuckles, the sound quiet and warm. A rough-skinned knuckle grazes the backside of his hand before pulling away. He stands up and cocks his head in the direction of the door, “Come on. Let me pull you out of the hole you’re digging for yourself and just show you.”  
  
Pratt shoots him a scathing look, but the heat is gone, lost somewhere in his gut.  
  
.  
.  
.  
  
The bunker is Spartan in nature and stuck between alternating shades of faded reds, grays, and blacks.The sweet, slightly chemical scent of gun oil; the raw wood of newly constructed crates, and the old, dusty scent of pilfered mattresses mix in the air. Jacob shows him his quarters, revealing a simple bed in a metal frame, a desk, and a bookshelf half-filled with books and stuffed file folders. What would be Pratt’s quarters or his mother’s is identical.  
  
A handful of Jacob’s men move throughout, alternating between moving boxes to completing chores. They’ll pause enough to greet Jacob and only give a brief nod at the sight of him. Pratt’s mouth pinches together, the flesh around his lips going white.  
  
There is a silent sense of pride radiating from Jacob he showcases the walls and beams.  
  
“This is a protector,” he comments, patting one of the beams, like it’s a living thing.  
  
His words and a sense of emptiness slosh in Pratt’s skull.  
  
Jacob speaks of how many feet they are buried underground. How if the McKinley Dam broke, the bunker would be able to stand strong and not suffer any infrastructural damages. The abundance of canned goods and water already stored within. Yet the walls remain bleak stretches of muted colors, often marked up with commands and reminders.  
  
Somewhere he can catch a whiff of the cloyingly sweet Bliss flower across the room, the word **KENNELS** emblazoned above a closed door. The pleasant scent bellies the quiet threat of all the sealed doors he comes across the deeper he moves in.  
  
The out of place cluster of chairs next to a podium and Joseph’s face mounted resurfaces his nervousness.  
  
**WORSHIP  
**  
Joseph’s face sits oddly at the top of a set of stairs, both stenciled and freehand graffiti littering the surrounding walls. Strict reminders to give thanks. To give allegiance. To remember one’s place.  
  
It hits him how strange this is, a nervous sickness brewing in his gut. Pratt pulls his lower lip into his mouth.  
  
Jacob provides no explanation, continuing to walk past the display. **PENANCE** is embolden over an approaching steel door and Pratt’s steps slow down. Slower. Slower. He comes to a halt. He can hear Jacob’s footsteps coming to a pause a moment later and the soft drag on steel floor of him turning around.  
  
It feels like waking from a surreal dream, consciousness resurfacing.  
  
Pratt’s lips form thin, pink lines, jaw tightening. “I…” he starts, still staring at the blocky lettering. He has a good idea of what the purpose of this room may be. He’s scrambling for something he can lead with beside upfront rebuke. _Would he even listen?_  
  
“I can’t move my mom here,” he rushes out, low and urgent, scared for both himself and his mom. He can’t even tell if he was speaking to himself or Jacob.  
  
Jacob’s brows furrow.  
  
“Jacob, this place is…” Pratt shakes his head, eyes falling back to **PENANCE.** “This place is…something straight out of a horror movie. I can’t even see _me_ being here.”  
  
“This isn’t a place where you can live,” Pratt elaborates at the sight of Jacob’s confusion. “This,” and Pratt imitates Jacob’s same move towards one of the metal beams, patting it, “is not a home. It’s a cage.”  
  
The silence that follows after his words have his hand flinching away from the beam, as if burned. Did he say too much? Did he overstep his bounds? Pratt cradles his hand against his stomach. Jacob stands stiffly in place, eyes settled on the marked wall, before sighing through his nostrils.  
  
He looks apprehensive of what he is about to say.  
  
“Would you reconsider if certain…changes were made?” Jacob asks at last, voice graveled, his face unreadable, but his uncertainty sneaking through his own words.  
  
Pratt frowns, crossing his arms across his chest. “I don’t know,” he replies honestly. “I didn’t realize how much of this is…beyond me, you know?” he tries, not quite sure how to explain the supernatural bizarreness surrounding Hope County the moment they came for Joseph Seed. “I want my mom to be safe, but not like this.”  
  
How could he consider this home? This was no safer nor comfortable than the cage, when all was said and done. This seemed less like a shelter and more like an underground training ground. A pang of homesickness — his shitty desk at the station, his small apartment, the sagging give of his couch— growls deep in his gut like hunger.   
  
“It’d have to be some serious changes, Jacob,” Pratt, finally, settles with. That seems to soothe the disappointment creeping across Jacob’s mouth.  
  
Jacob gives a nod, “What do you have in mind?”  
  
Pratt can feel a familiar rush of excitement at the agreement, but it's dampened by the resurfacing reminder that he is far from home.   
  
“This place needs to look like home,” he distracts, pushing past Jacob and taking the lead.  
  


* * *

 

**June 2018 ►►►**  
**John Seed**

**  
**  
One June morning, Eden’s Gate followers were roused from their beds at four in the morning.  
  
Beat up trucks and sedans roll out in a single file line down Hope County, headlights flickering in and out like fireflies as they go over and down a series of hills. They drive into John’s ranch, off the main road, curling around the front until they are peeking into the airstrip.  
  
Followers step out of the cars, a few pushing into the center of this growing mass of crosses a man with brown hair going just a bit past his chin. A greasy, green cap is loosely sitting on his head, waddling out. A purple and yellow bruise creeps past the beard on his jaw and stretches upward onto his left check.  
  
The man gives a dark swear when someone pushes him to move forward.  
  
Pushed. Pushed. Shoved. Threatened. Pushed. Pushed. He is pushed forward, past the living quarters of the ranch, onto a dirt road leading down to the Henbane.  
  
John Seed stands on the shoreline, clothed in white. His tattoos peek though like nightmarish smudges. He gives an amicable smile at his followers, the crowd returning in turn. Just next to him, bobbing in the water, wet rope tied loosely into a noose drags across the shore.  
  
A follower drags the man towards the rope and fastens it around his neck. The rope goes taut, the other end disappearing somewhere in the water, as if a stake has been driven into the mud.  
  
The collective breaths of the followers mingle slowly.   
  
“What a mess we have here today,” John starts, voice rising. “You are a sinner,” he continues, voice growing louder, “you are a sinner and in your eyes, I see greed. I see guilt and shame.” John tilts his head and two followers grab the man’s arms, pulling him deeper into the Henbane. They stop when he’s chest high, squirming and twisting out of his grip.  
  
Everyone cranes to see. His gray t-shirt has been split, **GREED** written widely across his torso.  
  
“This man refuses to give up -- to share his gift to our family. Refuses to work together. On top of that, he refuses to tell us where our **_dear little Lamb has gotten to_** ,” John’s voice is clipped, lips stretched out into forced grin. He gestures vaguely beyond the river. “This selfish sinner would rather all of you suffer. All of you never reach the Gates to Eden. He would jeopardize all of your lives in a heartbeat. All because of his **greed.”** John enunciates the word to the point his teeth painfully thud together.  
  
Since the Deputy’s escape, a great gnawing dread has been blooming in his chest. It’s fast-moving. Pushing at the walls of his body until he’s breathing loudly through his mouth, nostrils refusing to work. He has been descending into dreams, as of late, in which he’s in a white chapel, his hand tight on the back of the Deputy’s neck…  
  
“This one is not clean enough,” he says, flourishing with his hand at both the river and the man.  
  
“Goddamn psychopath,” the man begins, voice quiet before it goes bellowing out in a defiant roar.  
  
John pushes himself into the water, loudly sloshing through. He pauses to dramatically lay his hands on the man — one on the shoulder, the other on the back of his head. John gives a look to the watchers, as if modeling a step. Then, without warning, he pushes down. He pushes the man down until they are submerged into the Henbane, the other two followers keeping guard pushing, too.   
  
Thrashing is immediate. Another. A violent kick. It grows more frantic after twenty seconds.  
  
John pulls up, the man heaving in a lungful of air. A curse is drowned out by their own sputtering cough.  
  
“Still not clean enough,” John declares, gesturing for one of his followers to come towards them. A young woman answers the call, kicking off her shoes to wade in the water. “Keep him put. You’ll know when to let up,” John instructs, stepping aside for the woman to take his place. "We will not stop until this sinner is made clean again."  
  
“Fuck you,” the man, finally, manages to gain their bearings before disappearing into the water.  
  
They start. One by one, John instructs each follower to dunk the man into the Henbane. The water fills their throat, only to be heaved and coughed out with each resurface. The man’s face starts to go empty, the rage on his face slackening into nothingness.  
  
“This can stop, Nick,” John halts the next follower on their journey towards them with a held up hand. He closes the distance between himself and Nick, staring intently up at him. “Where is she? I know you know where she is,” he coos softly, quickly fading into the falling of his brows and voice, “I know she’s not at your home. I checked. I even asked Kim — "  
  
_“Don’t you goddamn fucking dare, you fucking psychopath — ”_  
  
John smiles, shrugging off the curses.  
  
“Then tell me or this doesn't stop.”  
  
Nick’s features twist and morph to fear, stress, rage, reluctance, loss. A thousand expressions flittering on his face and John watches with rapt interest. Then, Nick’s face settles on reluctance and resolution. He gives a noisy sound of saliva being pulled deep into the back of his mouth before spitting it at John. The wet bolus of saliva lands somewhere on his chin.  
  
John carefully wipes it, giving a terse look at the follower. Before Nick can open his mouth, he’s being pulled back into the water once more.


	18. Come Wisdom Come Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And I saw one of his heads as if it had been mortally wounded, and his deadly wound was healed. And all the world marveled and followed the beast." - **Revelation 13:3**

** Deputy Lamb **

Three days after fleeing John’s bunker, Deputy Lamb enters Fall’s End. Shops are either boarded up or thronged. Two women in their Sunday best are sitting on the steps of the church, their heads held in their hands. A man lies facedown in front of the garage’s sign, unconscious or worse. Sheets of blackened paper scuttle past her feet. She sees bits of her face on the salvageable parts of the paper.  
  
Behind the garage there is a queue of people carrying gasoline cans leading up to a stolen tank truck. They round the block, but keep close to the sides of the garage, nervously staring up. No one seems to notice her. Not even when she pushes her way into the Spread Eagle.  
  
All day, mile after mile, she let herself imagine that she would be greeted with food and beer. The Spread Eagle is teeming with people. Suitcases. One of the tables has a few dissected pistols laid out. The shelves of liquor and cases of beer are scarce. There is a frenetic energy leaving the bar hot and overbearing.  
  
Lamb sticks close towards the entrance where it’s still cool.  
  
Through the window into the kitchen she can see Casey grim and focused. He lifts his head to wipe his brows with the back of his hand. His eyes find hers. Stays there before recognition flitters across his face. Lamb watches him leave his post, push the back door open, and holler out into the daylight. Mary May comes barreling inside quickly after. She spots Lamb before pushing through the crowd —

“Jesus Christ, you actually are alive,” she rushes out, hardly giving an apology when she pushes someone albeit roughly out of the way. Her arms wrap around Lamb, giving a tight squeeze. “You’ve been gone for so damn long we…” she goes silent, pulling away.   
  
Someone begins to notice, Lamb’s name pushing through the background noise. Mary May gives a curt nod and starts to drag Lamb towards the staircase.

A hand squeezes her arm. Another claps her on the back. Hands are clapping and a few hoots are being let out. Her throat goes tight, shoulders stiff. Her name swirls about her — a collection of acknowledgement and awe.  
  
The jukebox slowly clicks onto life. Johnny Cash’s voice manages to rumble out confidently over the rising rancor.  
  
_We’ll meet again. Don’t know where. Don’t know when, but I know —  
  
_ Lamb’s neck strains as they search for the jukebox. All they can see is a man hunched over, tattooed fingers pressing on the buttons to look at the available selections — _  
  
_ Mary May gives a sharp tug on her arm, throwing something over her shoulder to the, now, aware crowd.  
  
— _some sunny day. Keep smilin’ thru —_  
  
Lamb turns the corner on the stairs and the first floor of the Spread Eagle disappears. Mary May rummages on her person before producing a set of keys, unlocking it. The world below is muffled once they step inside, Mary May shutting the door behind them.  
  
“Holy shit am I glad to see you,” she whooshes out, moving to get another look at Lamb. Lamb stays still, eyes blinking slowly. “You look like hell and I’m bettin’ you feel like it, too. Come on. Got a shower up here. It’s not much, but it has hot water.”  
  
That loosens the tight line stretched from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. Lamb’s body collectively hunches forward and Mary May gives a sympathetic sigh. She makes her way to the bathroom and shows how to change the temperature of the water. She starts the shower for her, sticking her hand through the curtain and adjusting the knobs until satisfied. “Soap. Shampoo. Whatever is in here, you can use,” she goes on, wiping her wet hand on her pant legs.  
  
Mary keeps on shooting glances up at her the entire time. Eyes drifting down to her exposed collarbone. Black ink, possibly, peeking its head out and that alone disclosing a harrowing tale.  
  
Lamb doesn’t wait for Mary May to find her tongue, slowly stepping out of her boots. She gives a meaningful pull of her belt, metal clicking, before Mary May is mumbling something about checking in later.  
  
The door clicks shut and Lamb’s fingers still.

The spray of water hitting the enameled bottom of the tub slowly morphs into white noise. Soft. Swirling down her ears. She remains immobile. Still. Eyes staring at the sink. A long exhale of breath, as if it sat heavy in her lungs, shakes her. Her pants are shoved down, pulling them off with her socks caught in the process. Her top comes next, tugging it over her head. She lets her body swing a bit to the right, eyes purposely catching the mirror, morbidly staring at her chest —   
  
Lamb’s eyes shudder to a close, jaw tight. She finishes undressing, turning away from the mirror and stepping into the tub.  
  
The hot water scalds her skin, her upper chest caught aflame, still tender in certain spots. The heat sears the nerves into a numb throb after a moment. Slowly, _slowly_ , slowly the coils of wound up muscle in her shoulders and back wither. Something in her leg twitches and she slaps a hand onto the wall of the shower for support.  
  
_Fuck._  
  
John marked _everything._ Angry swatches of black ink and ruined flesh stretch across her chest.  
  
Lamb continues to stand in the spray of water, breathing in wafting steam rising from beneath her. Her feet are already turning a blistering red under the hot water.  
  
She lets her free hand blindly drag across her chest, feeling the upraised flesh, reading it as if it was Braille. Her hand drops suddenly to her side. She shoves her head directly into the water, uncaring when the hot water irritates her eyes.  
  
“Fuck you,” she seethes, but it’s subdued.  
  
She moves with sudden action. Her hands reach for the few bottles clustered around the tub, squinting at their labels. She settles on one, squirting a massive globule of shampoo onto her hand. It smells sharp and clean — orange and lavender. She scrubs, albeit aggressively, the shampoo into her scalp. Shampoo is starting to ooze onto her forehead. Dried and raw skin wedges itself underneath her fingernails. Something pricks at the back of her skull, but she keeps on scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing, because he marked everything, scrubbing —

_Knock! Knock!_

“Hey, coming in with beer! It’s me,” Mary May’s voice cuts through.

Lamb’s hands pause, making the mistake of opening her eyes, shampoo slipping through — “Shit,” she scowls, turning her face into the water. “Yeah — okay,” she calls out, absently. 

“Thought you might want one,” Mary May supplements.   
  
Lamb imagines Mary May with her head peeking through, eyeing the discarded clothes. There is the audible sound of glass clinking as Mary May steps in. Metallic hiss of a cap being shucked off fills the air before the shower curtain rustles. Instantly Lamb slaps a hand over her chest, twirling to look behind her, waiting for the shower curtains to be ripped wide open —  
  
A hand with a green bottle of beer is shoved through. Lamb sighs and takes the bottle, pleased when it’s chilled to the touch. She takes a few quick, hearty swigs. It’s too much. Enough to hurt her throat, but she doesn’t care.  
  
“Thanks,” she heaves out before taking a, now, slower sip.  
  
Mary May gives a hum in response.

Mary May isn’t leaving, the telling sound of the toilet seat closing shut. Something metallic is dragging against the tiled floor — maybe the Deputy’s belt buckle — followed by the sound of fabric brushing against each other. Lamb tries to watch through the opaque shower curtain.  
  
“Where were you?” Mary May asks, quiet. Lamb looks away, as if Mary May can see her through the barrier. She takes a swig of her beer before leaving it on one of the edges of the tub, reaching out for what looks like body wash.  
  
The sound of water and the click of the bottle stretches out with the silence. Lamb focuses on methodically rubbing circles all across her skin. The shower drain swirls a mixture of rust-colored water and suds.  
  
“His bunker.”  
  
Mary May swears under her breath, “Shit. That place is defended like its Fort Knox. How the hell did you escape?”

Lamb stays silent, busying herself picking at the dirt underneath her finger nails. She finishes one hand, biting into the nail of her pinky before shoving into the shower’s spray.  
  
“Guessing he marked you?” Mary May ventures, words rolling out strange from her mouth.  
  
“Something like that,” Lamb replies, tight and small.  
  
“You know I managed to get mine removed. Insurance paid for it,” Mary May starts off conversationally, “I had a piss poor reaction to the ink or the needle — who knows. Doubt he even cleans that needle of his — ” She sucks in the air through her teeth, swearing softly under her breath with a quick, “Sorry. That’s…probably not what you want to hear right now.”  
  
The words thud softly against her skull along with the water. Lamb goes for the beer bottle, chugging it. It leaves a stale, metallic aftertaste trail down her throat and into her stomach. She places the empty bottle on the edge.

“More people than usual in Fall’s End,” Lamb changes gear, burping into her hand.   
  
Mary May sounds more than eager at the pivot in conversation, giving a long hum in agreement. “John’s taken back a few outposts when you were gone. He got his ranch back and a few farms. Folks are trying to make some desperate run through the mountains. Others are holing themselves up in their own bunkers like its the end of times.”

She can see herself with backpack on her shoulders, daring to haul herself over Hope County’s mountain range until she hits civilization. She could do it. She could more than do it. Move in the night, stay in place during daylight —   
  
‘ _Really, Rook?’  
  
_ Hudson’s voice slices through the vision —  
  
“You got another beer over there?” Lamb asks, loudly, heart pounding unreasonably.  
  
“Yeah. Brought up a whole case.”  
  
Another beer is produced and Lamb takes it, forcefully drinking it down. She lets herself lean against the shower wall, heaving quietly for breath when the bottle leaves her lips.  
  
She takes a deep breath and another drawn out sip.  
  
Her stomach feels off when she places the second bottle down in the shower. She swallows uneasily and slowly returns to washing herself off.  
  
An uncomfortable silence settles in the space between them. It doesn’t take long for Mary May to rise up from her spot, the distinct sound of a knob turning clicking.  
  
“You ever notice something odd about John? Just things you couldn’t exactly explain?” Lamb blurts out.  
  
The door knob clicks again. Softer. Mary May gives a careful snort in response, “Beside the whole family being twisted as hell?”  
  
“Besides that.”  
  
Mary May inhales and exhales loudly.  
  
“Before you came on board,” she starts, mulling over her words carefully, “my pops, supposedly, got in an accident while out to get my brother, Drew, back from the cult. But it wasn’t no accident.” A pause quietly follows after her words.  
  
Lamb takes a step across the tub, ready to stick her head out of the shower curtains, to look at Mary May —  
  
“John wanted my pops gone and to put me in my place,” her voice cuts through, forceful and firm, “I don’t care how John spins it, but I know he poisoned Drew somehow. The Bliss. Whatever. Made him do what he wanted him to do.”  
  
Lamb nods slowly, “Where’s Drew now?”  
  
“He’s with my pops.”  
  
Lamb’s mouth makes a small ‘O’ shape before her lips shut resolutely. Her lips curl inward, pulling themselves into her gums. They resurface only to be pursed together, mind pumping furiously.  
  
“There were moments where…John would say something and I’d end up doing it without a second thought,” Lamb admits, words sounding strange out of her own mouth. She feels detached from her body altogether, feeling more like the intrusive audience member watching everything unfold in the bathroom. Did she always look so small? Wet hair clinging to the back of her neck and shoulders rounded forward.  
  
“I can’t explain it. Or how when I…when I seem to actually be getting somewhere, I end up dragged back to John. Doesn’t matter how fast I run or hide, I always end up —” Deputy snaps their fingers, “instantly in John’s grasp.”  
  
Mary May swears, confused, “That’s not good, Dep. I…shit… I don’t even know.”  
  
“I feel like everything I do,” Deputy carries on with momentum, voice peaking in volume, “he ends up knowing about it before I do or…or…or can just immediately set me back to square one. I mess up his plans. Take out outposts. Take out trucks. He drags me in. Rinse and repeat. This is all…predictable. _I’m_ predictable.”  
  
She sucks in the air noisily, not realizing the words have rushed past her lips without taking a breath. Mary May is standing close to the shower, a shadow cutout of her frame visible through the shower curtain. Her hand grabs at the curtain, taking a fistful, but not pulling it open. There is something reassuring knowing part of it is bunched in Mary May’s hand — a comforting touch Lamb can’t feel.  
  
“Then you have to be unpredictable,” Mary May firmly retorts back.  
  
“Look, listen… John expects everybody to piss on his cornflakes and say ‘no’ to him, right? _Especially_ if you’re a part of the Resistance. He’s always gunning for some fight so he can beat you into submission. He expects Resistance to hold onto our land and fight back, right?”  
  
How quick fire ignites in her gut, daring to grab one of the edges of the shower curtain and pull it back enough to stick her head out. She stares at Mary May without seeing, eyes unfocused. “You asking me to not do shit?” she can feel the heat of her own frustration pushing up her throat. Her voice smolders.  
  
“ _No_ — hold on, listen,” she quickly holds a placating hand, “all of this is a tug-o-war, right? Just let go of the rope and watch him fall back on his ass.”  
  
Lamb takes an unsteady breath, eyes gradually beginning to focus.  
  
“What I’m trying to say is, be unpredictable. Don’t do shit he expects you to do,” Mary May concludes.

The Deputy sinks back into the obscurity of the shower. She takes a step back into the spray of the water, back hunched. 

“Look, you’ve had one hell of…a month,” Mary May continues, refusing to let silence settle long between them, “I’m gonna head down and have Casey whip you something to eat. Clean clothes are out on the bed when you’re done.” There is the sound of soft shuffling of feet on tile and the metallic pull of the doorknob, once more.   
  
“I’m glad you’re back, Dep. We all are,” Mary May’s voice floats into her ears before the door opens and closes.

Lamb stays put, only emerging from the tub once the water runs cold.  
  
.  
.  
.  
.  
  
When the gasoline tanker is sucked dry so is Fall’s End. The streets and sun-bleached homes stand emptied and looted. Lamb has taken to sticking half her body out of the second floor window, fingers rolling a cigarette back and forth.  
  
Three cigarettes left.  
  
Nothing stirs in Fall’s End. No Peggy materializes down the street or from an abandoned house with a rifle. No entourage of trucks pushing down the road with John being safely led to the front of the Spread Eagle to monologue away. No planes…  
  
Every problem has a solution. Every lock a key. She could try to haul her way out of Hope County or she could stay here or go to _him._  
  
Lamb groans noisily and grabs the worn carton of cigarettes sitting on the ledge, carefully placing the cigarette back in. She pockets it in Mary May’s borrowed jean jacket.

The small room upstairs groans and ticks as she moves across. Music softly slips into existence when she opens the door. 

_Don’t know where. Don’t know when, but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day…_  
  
Her feet are heavy as she walks down the stairs. An audience of empty tables and chairs greet her, save for —

“Nick?” Lamb sputters out, legs no longer lethargic, near skipping her way to the lean figure hunched over the bar.  
  
Nick’s head jerks up, surprised. Their brown hair is greasy and sticking out messily out from his baseball cap. He looks worse for wear, eyes sunken and purpled with lack of sleep. His hand, instinctively, goes to grab the front of his shirt, pulling it up where it sags near the collar.  
  
“H-hey, Partner,” Nick tries, weakly, “thought you, uh, hopin’ you might have…left these parts.”  
  
Lamb fixes him with a queer look as she closes the gap between them. The hand on his shirt tightens.  
  
“Jesus, Nick, what happened?” her hand reaching out towards his, but he pulls away, grimacing. Lamb’s hand stops. Stretched out, but frozen in place. Nick wilts in growing shame, head dipping down towards his chest, using his spare hand to rub at his face. Lamb’s hand drops to her side and she takes a step back.  
  
“Dammit, I’m sorry, I’m not…” he starts, exasperated, before cutting himself off. He slowly releases the front of his shirt. The angry peeking line of marked flesh reveals itself.  
  
Lamb wants to close her eyes, forget, give up, but she stays put. Staring at the mark then Nick. Her jaw tightens; she knows what needs to happen.  
  
“I’m sorry — I tried to say — I said ‘no’ as long as I could, but then he started tossin’ threats at Kim and the baby. Look I’m gonna do whatever it takes, you hear? Whatever it takes, but I can’t just — I know that crazy goddamn psychopath would follow through on them threats and — ” Nick is starting to ramble, breath short and panicked. He keeps on fidgeting with his shirt and hat, his hands needing to occupy themselves.  
  
“Nick, Nick…hey, listen. It’s okay. I’m not mad,” Lamb soothes, stretching her hand out once more and letting it settle on his wrist. “You did the right thing.”  
  
Nick shakes his head, unconvinced, “You say that now, but you don’t know what he asked me to do. It’s…it’s why I was hoping you hightailed it out of here with the rest of the folks in these parts.”  
  
Lamb’s brows pinch, confused.  
  
“John…John has me going about places and seeing if you’re about. If I see you, I radio it in and Kim…stays safe,” Nick confesses lamely, head gesturing towards his hip. Lamb looks down, spying the black radio hooked to his belt loops. “I can lie, though, it’s just…he has me on this deadline and…” he trails off.  
  
“Okay…tell him I’ll meet him at the Ranch in an hour,” Lamb replies, words sounding strange off her tongue, but her voice holds true.  
  
Nick chokes on his spit, eyes wide, “Hold up — _what_?!” He’s shaking his head to the point it gives him vertigo, body careening dangerously back before he’s pulling himself up, hands gripping the bar. “You can’t — hold on, we need a _plan._ I…you can’t even — that place is locked down tight. We lost the Ranch! It’s his! I don’t even have my plane! They took it!”  
  
“Everyone okay?” Mary May’s voice cuts in, the back door swinging open. She gives a concerned look and rushes behind the bar once she sees Nick, “ _Goddamn_ you look like hell.” A first aid kit is pulled out and Nick instantly is waving it aside, pointing a finger at Lamb.  
  
“It’s _suicide_! This ain’t time for Butch and Sundance. Tell them!”  
  
Mary May turns to Lamb, mouth slightly ajar, “What’s going on now?”  
  
“Something unpredictable…and stupid.”  
  
Nick swears in loud agreement with that sentiment.  
  
Mary May, however, gives an understanding nod, turning to Nick. “Just do whatever she tells you to do,” she bites out with authority. The next nod she gives is firm and she purposely leaves the bar, striding out through the front entrance. Nick gapes, head swiveling back and forth between the Deputy and Mary May.  
  
“Make the call, Nick. Trust me,” Lamb breathes out.  
  
If John is that intent on gunning after her, might as well save John the trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! Hope you enjoyed this chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> _What did you like? What would you like more of? Tell me in a review!_


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